Europa High
by Icefrosty
Summary: Amber Farrow is a socially-awkward normal student attending Europa High, while the teachers are anything but. Gradually, it becomes clear that something or someone is hell-bent on destroying the reputation and even lives of these teachers, at all costs.
1. Another Year and No Dollars

Europa High

Chapter 1: Another Year and No Dollars

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Sigh. Walking up to the familiar school gates that made the place look more like a prison than a school, the soft, warm lull of the dreamy holidays seemed like so long ago, like a fond memory. It made the trudge back to the old grind far harder than it ought to have been. I consoled myself with the fact that, once I got into the swing of things, as I would surely do in no time, I'd just get on with it, as I had done in the past.

My name is Amber Farrow, and this was my third year attending Europa R.C (Roman Catholic) School. I was coming back to this familiar place as a Year Nine student, now fully integrated with the norms of school life.

Seeing my Maths teacher and form tutor, Mr. Beilschmidt; blonde, German, and already red in the face and shouting his head off at the students cluttering the front doors, wanting to avoid entering the building at all costs, I smiled wryly.

Here we go again.

With a soft sigh, I passed through the iron gates and into the playground towards the front doors.

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**Registration Time: (09.20am)**

"Guten Abend, alle!" the familiar deep, firm German accent boomed from the front of the class. The clean-cut blonde man standing before us, dignified in his navy suit and tie stark with the colours of the German flag, smiled awkwardly. "Let's make this Jahr less mentally-traumatizing and stress-filled than zhe last van!"

There were laughs and cheers and shouts of "S'yeah right, sir!" from my classmates. Mr. Beilschimdt raised his hand for silence, and silence was achieved instantly.

We stood motionless standing behind our chairs, waiting. Then, each of us, one by one, requested: "Darf ich meine Jacke aus, bitte?" (May I take off my jacket, please?)*

Satisfied, Mr. Beilschmidt would bid each one of us to sit down while taking off our coats and heaving bags until everyone was seated. Don't get me wrong, having done this every single morning for the past year and a bit, this was all done quickly and smoothly.

In moments, we were all seated and waiting for him to speak.

This was the extent to which he had authority over us. No one would dare even _think_for fear of inciting our form tutor's terrifying wrath. The man was so particular about noise, rumour had it he had telepathic powers to tell if your mind wandered into the land of 'unicorns and flying mint bunnies', as the German contemptuously called it, while he lectured.

Having been made form tutor of our class (9A) for the second year in a row, he was well aware of our behaviour patterns and achievement levels, but to the extent where he had the creepy tendency to approach you with tips to boost your grades he seemed to know without asking, and tell you to get to a particular lesson without even having seen your timetable in months.

Maybe that's the power of the German mind…

Some other assets were not so positive. The poor man has half the Upper Sixth girls swooning over him. God, you'd think those girls hadn't even heard the word 'self-respect'. Practically drooling and obsessively following his every move with puppy-dog eyes that made you want to slap them. I mean, yes, the man was young and pretty good-looking in all respects, but so out of their league it was pitiful. Knowing his rigid, border-line perfectionist personality, those girls wouldn't last five minutes with him without throwing themselves into a nearby taxi to drive them as far away as possible from the crazy OCD man who couldn't accept that she had been 1.53 minutes late on their date and that her hair was at a wrong angle.

No chance.

Mr. Beilschmidt avoided these rabid hyenas like the plague, so no real problems aside from incessant stalking and random accosting by obsessed young women throwing their breasts in his direction suggestively as he walked past arose.

Poor guy. Now he probably knew how Mr. Braginski, our cheerful yet sinister Geography teacher, who was nigh-constantly stalked by his assistant, Miss. Arlovskaya, his (batshit insane) sister, feels.

Getting back to things, our form tutor proceeded with the military-drum-roll-esque register, featuring Mr. Beilschmidt practically shouting each name like a war cry and shouting whenever somebody answered a split second later than required.

He was a damn good teacher, but certain aspects of his personality really just made you want to yell "SHUT IT, THEY CAN HEAR YA IN CHINA!"

Of course, we all knew doing that would result in instant death by lap-running. The German had a habit of punishing students by making them run laps around the main building of the school (which is bloody huge)**, while hollering out the window at them with a megaphone: "YOU CALL ZAT RUNNING? MY GRANDMUZZER COULD RUN FASTER THAN ZHAT AND SHE'S IN A WHEELCHAIR!"

I just clenched my teeth and bore it until my turn came to practically shout my name out as well.

When all was done, Mr. Beilschmidt let us go with a loud: "That is all! Dismissed!"

Being right at the front of the class, I managed to hear him mutter under his breath, "And don't break anyzing zis time…"

I smirked. Heh. Busby's chair last summer…Good times.

Filing out of the classroom, I turned the corner and made my way down the corridor to the History Bloc.

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**First Period: History (10.00am)**

"Ohayo gozaimasu," a smooth, soft voice greeted as we took our seats.

We returned the gesture in unison. Ah, good old Mr. Honda. The Japanese man really was born to teach this subject. Speaking and acting like an old man himself, despite being no older than Mr. Beilschmidt, when he talked about historical events it almost seemed as if he had actually been there, heightening the awesome experience being taught by him was. It really was like going back in time in Mr. Honda's class.

Everything from the Victorian wooden tables to the old black-board to the pictures decorating the walls was ancient. The room even had the musky scent of an aged bunker or museum filled with ancient artefacts. Mr. Honda himself always turned up in a smart Japanese naval officer uniform, pure white and suiting his clean-cut and impeccable appearance and demeanour.

Smiling slightly, stood at his desk and looked around at us as if he were genuinely glad to see us, and the gleam in his eye told us he was.

"Wercome back, everyone,' he said, in his funny Engrish, "I hope this year's History topic sharr interest and inspire you all. I wirr work hard to make sure you do your very best, and you yourserves sharr do the same."

By now we had perfected the art of repressing fatal fits of laughter in the Japanese man's presence. The last person who did that...well...I won't go into details. Too mentally harmful.

Grasping his chalk stick and turning to the blackboard behind him without turning his eyes away from us, Mr. Honda began.

"So, let us get started, sharr we?"

Despite his soft-spoken personality and short stature, Mr. Honda was one of those teachers who had a certain aura around them that said: _"Mess with me and I shall make you rue the day your father said to your mother, 'Gosh darling, I'm feeling a little frisky tonight'"._

Or, at least, that's the uncensored version that Mr. Honda emitted. The Head Chef Romano's aura was quite a different story.

_"Fuck with me and you die!", _it roared, in a heavy Italian accent.

Heh. Lunchtime was gonna be fun.

Besides that, he really did bend over backwards to make sure you knew everything and didn't fall behind, and really seemed to care about your progress.

Mr. Honda had achieved the fine art of being approachable and kind while retaining a strict code of discipline and order in the class.

By and by, our new topic for History was the Mongol Empire, and one that immediately incited my lust for anything and everything new and mysterious. I let out a squeal that made Mr. Honda look at me funny. The class sniggered.

Naturally.

And, as always, Mr. Honda spoke as if he knew literally last detail of the whole string of events right down to what the people of each nation involved had for breakfast each morning, and even their names. He also seemed especially emotional about this particular topic***. That was saying one heck of a lot from a man whose usual expression was like a guy sitting through the Twilight movies—the expression of one who has utterly repressed all feeling in a desperate attempt to cope with the amount of mind-numbing crap playing out mercilessly before his eyes.

This was going to be interesting…  
>.<p>

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**Second Period: English (10.40am)**

"Right, lads and lasses, get your Macbeth textbooks out and turn to page forty-two," Mr. Kirkland instructed breezily just as he walked into the room. We stared, outraged. What, no greeting? Hi, how are ya? How's yer cat been?

Pushing up his small round reading-glasses up his nose, the blond Brit scanned our faces with a frown.

"Oh, sorry. Good morning all, sorry for the lateness. The Frog was being a wanker again."

We cracked up. Ah, Mr. Bonnefoy and his sexual rabidness (sorry Mr. Kirkland, bad English).

Mr. Kirkland smiled wryly.

"Off with you," he retorted, and got out his own copy of the Shakespeare text and flipping through the pages. Mr. Kirkland could be cool sometimes.

However, much of the time he acted like a spurned old man. And God did we hate him when he was _really _in a bad mood, always seemingly for no reason whatsoever, and taking it out on us by either of the following: random down-grading, shouting, ranting, and, even worse, the cold shoulder. He could shun you for several lessons at a time if he wanted, leaving you utterly helpless in the face of a problem you couldn't solve without his help. Did he apologize for said unexplained rejection? Hell no! He just went back to his usual grumpy self.

"Right,' the Brit spoke up, clearing his throat, mammoth eyebrows furrowed in his characteristic angry frown. 'Let's make a few things clear. This year, I will not be taking any cheek or back-talk from any of you. If any of you make it clear you don't to be here and actually learn something, you're out on the spot. This is the year of your GCSE exams, mid-year exams, or whatever you want to call it, and there is absolutely no room for larking about. Anyone who does will receive a good old British-style thrashing. With _this_ cane..."

[At this, Mr. Kirkland whipped out a long, thin wooden stick]

"Everybody," he announced, swishing the cane around suggestively. "This is Herr Schtick. Courtesy of Mr. Beilschmidt. Since he discovered far worse ways to punish students (lap-running, as we all know), he's lent his favourite cane/stick to me for use whenever I see fit. And I intend to use it to its _utmost potential."_

Mr. Kirkland leered at us in a way that made us fear for our welfare for a moment.

"So. You treat me right, and I'll do the same to you. Then we won't have any problems now—" He struck the cane with a sharp _thwack! _on his desktop, and we flinched. He smirked. "Shall we?"

I think the message was pretty clear. We nodded.

"Good!" Mr. Kirkland said, satisfied, and stowing away Herr Schtick one of the desk draws. "Now, let's turn to Macbeth, page forty-two..."

Carrying on the depressing-ass play we had been studying for the past year, I thanked my lucky stars that at least I was top of my class in the subject regardless of whether I enjoyed it or not. Here I could really let my creativity shine through, something that Mr. Kirkland was all too happy to encourage.

Strange, when one hates the subject yet still gets good grades. But then, there were a lot of people I knew last year who studied French with Mr. Bonnefoy—hated him, and the subject, but still got top grades. You can't imagine the ecstasy of the girls (and even some boys) in the class when they were told pervy teacher would be transferred to the Drama department to replace the departed sole teacher of the subject at the time.

The only thing that kept the Frenchman in the school was the knowledge that he, despite all his unashamed perversion, would never dream of touching any of us.

The staff, on the other hand, were another matter altogether.

Back in English class, the lesson ran as it always did—with a few "wankers" and "good show's" thrown in.

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**Third Period: Science (11.40am)**

"Aiyah! You're all here, aru!" a certain Chinese man cried as he turned round from his ferocious scribbling on the whiteboard some nonsensical science formula to see us all seated and waiting. We grinned back at him.

No shit, Sherlock.

He turned back the board and begun to hastily wipe away the scribbled notes off the board with a cloth. Sometimes he could be as old-fashioned as Mr. Honda.

Swirling round again; lab-coat (the sleeves of which being hazardously long), pony-tail and all, Dr. Wang Yao clapped his hands.

"Ni hao, welcome back! Right, everyone! Our first topic for this term is the properties of medicine, aru! You know, how to make them, aru!"

Everyone chattered excitedly. I beamed secretively. Wow, this year was going to be fun! We all knew that Dr. Yao would naturally be far more enthusiastic about this topic than he had with previous ones. This would mean a vast improvement, since he had loathed the prior topics and had complained nigh-constantly about them in both public and private. Dean Veneziano (nicknamed Grandpa Rome, for kicks), our lusty, overly-affectionate headmaster, must've gotten tired of it and pulled some strings on the syllabus.

Dr. Yao himself was like a firecracker; when dormant he was colourful and amicable with everyone, but when he exploded, he was like a demon possessed. It could happen without warning and at the slightest thing. Nobody wanted to be in the same room as Dr. Yao when he flipped, because he would more often than not break something potentially dangerous and take it out of everybody by yelling more.

As a result, we were extra-cautious in his presence and did everything he said without a single complaint or mistake...or tried to, at least. That way, we kept the peace.

Once he had registered us with his typical sing-song gusto, Dr. Yao began his lesson, gesturing wildly as his fervour took him over.

Then, when he had finished outlining the basics of the topic and making sure we had all firmly imbedded the information into our wearing craniums, the slight Chinese man scanned the room with keen dark eyes.

"I'll be needing a volunteer to help me with this substance, aru," he said, smiling. Everyone instantly distracted themselves with the doodles on the desktops, shifting on their lab stools and fiddling with their hair or pencils.

I stared psychopathically at my lesson notes, praying to whatever omnipresent force to save me from any kind of abject humiliation—

"Ah! Hǔpò! You will do fine, please come up here and help, aru!" he bid cheerfully. I inwardly groaned.

Apparently the omnipresent forces had a grudge against me.

In any case, 'Hǔpò' was the Chinese equivalent of my first name, Amber. He called everybody by the Chinese versions of their names, except when he was angry.

The class snickered.

I pushed back my stool, and, not looking at anyone, made my way round the long front desk and to where Dr. Yao stood holding a beaker, in which a strangely pink substance bubbled.

Standing beside the man who was only inches taller than I was, I was handed the beaker.

Ew. It was a liquid pink goo I didn't know the name of. I blocked out everything Dr. Yao was saying as he vigorously explained what the stuff was, and stared at the floor. _Do not look at anybody's faces, I told myself fiercely. Just don't—_

Dr. Yao began to pour another beaker filled with a yellowish substance into mine, and instantly the mix turned a deep shade of orange.

More explaining. I did not listen. I could feel their ugly gleeful eyes on me. Waiting.

"...Now, Hǔpò, please place the beaker at the back of the class," Dr. Yao instructed, smiling.

I nodded mutely, and made my way down the path between the two split rows of desks in the centre of the room, keeping my eyes firmly on my destination: the back counters on which various scientific appliances stood.

Suddenly, I felt something kick away my left foot from the ground, and sent me crashing forward onto the floor.

The beaker and its contents smashed and spilled everywhere, on my face, hair and uniform, and littered the floor.

The class erupted in laughter. My ears were ringing with it, whole body trembling with the shock of the fall and calamity of noise around me. They'd done it again. Shock turned to rage, and tears spilled.

Dr. Yao rushed to my side, shouting at everyone to be quiet, helped me to my feet, and began to inspect me for injuries.

"Hǔpò! Tiān a!**** You're bleeding! Don't worry, I'll take you to the nurses' office!" I heard him cry, horrified. "Does it hurt anywhere else?"

I did not respond. _Oh, it hurts somewhere, Dr. Yao. But not where you'd think._

The laughter continued. Bellowing. Mocking.

Before I knew what I was doing, I'd wrenched away from the teacher's grasp, turned heel, and ran out of the classroom and down the Science corridor. I heard Dr. Yao shouting my name, but I was focused on getting away. It hurt. My legs ached. My ankle seemed to be sprained, and I limped as fast as I could. Get away. From them. From this damned school...

I turned the corner and sprinted, bleeding and sobbing, down yet another corridor, turned left again, and burst through the doors to the girl's toilet. It was empty.

I went into the first corridor I saw, sat down on the seat and locked the door. The secluded, compressed space allowed me time away from the rest of the ugly world, and I cried undisturbed.

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**Fourth Period: Art (12.20am)**

When I was done, I washed myself in the sinks and stopped the cuts bleeding, and tried to wash as much of the liquid orange substance off the uniform and hair as possible, drying myself under the hand-dryers.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I looked an emotional wreak. Christ, the girl from the Exorcist was the next step up from here. I smirked. Go me and my dark humour in times like this.

I then realised that I'd left my bag vulnerable and unattended in Dr. Yao's room. Oh God. I'd probably been robbed blind. No, I'd _definitely _been robbed. But Dr. Yao would not allow that, surely...but, I thought, he didn't have a hawk's eye, as Mr. Beilschmidt did, when it came to such secretive acts.

Anxious and dreading the thought of going back to that place where Dr. Yao and perhaps some of my bastard classmates would likely be, I walked out of the girl's toilets and made my way back to the class.

My stuff's safety was my priority. I had to go back there sometime, and sooner was better than later.

Glancing at the classrooms I passed, I could see everybody standing behind their chairs ready to be dismissed. Panic overtook me as I imagined how they would react if they saw me in this state, so I dashed down the corridor and made it to Dr. Yao's room before they could file out and see me.

Approaching the door of the Science class, I peeked round the door.

No one there.

Sighing in relief, I entered the classroom, and spotted my bag sitting on Dr. Yao's desk.

"Aiyaaah! Gotcha!" a voice yelled, and suddenly Dr. Yao bounced up from behind me and grabbed my arm.

"Jesus, sir!" I yelled, freaked out. "What the hell, you were waiting behind the door this whole time? Who are you, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

The young Chinese man pouted like a five-year-old.

"Please don't compare me to that rampant animal, aru!" he huffed. Then his expression softened. "I just wanted to properly make sure you were alright, aru. You were hurt, and very distressed. I hope you've calmed down a little now?"

I nodded, self-conscious.

He looked me over carefully, noticing my cuts were more-or-less taken care of, and my clothes and hair more-or-less dry and free of orange goo.

"You've done a good job with yourself, aru," he remarked, smiling at me. "But I'd better finish off and give you proper treatment."

Dr. Yao turned to the cupboard behind the door, opened it, and fished around. He brought out a little white case with a red cross on it.

"I always come prepared for injuries, aru," he said, opening it on his desktop and taking out a packet of plasters and bending down in front of me to administer them to my cut arms and hands. My legs seemed fine, though.

"Does your ankle hurt?" he questioned, seeing my limp. "Aiyah, you have sprained it!" he gasped, fuming. "Oh, those little devils! I would've hit them harder if I'd known you were hurt like this, aru!"

I blinked.

"You hit them?"

"Oh yes!" Dr. Yao cried passionately. "I gave them all a good hiding with my cane. One boy protested of why I was bothering over you, so I slapped him round the face!"

I laughed. Trust Dr. Yao to give it as good as he got.

The Chinese man grinned.

"I am glad you're feeling better, aru," he said, standing up. "I think you should go to the showers in the P.E bloc, aru. The substance will make your hair all sticky. We don't want that, do we, aru?"

I nodded, thanking him.

"It was no trouble, aru. By the way, I informed your form tutor about this incident. He will make sure something is done. This class consists of your form-mates, don't they?"

"Yeah," I replied, gritting my teeth.

"Well then, Mr. Beilschmidt will sort them out, aru," he assured. "Don't worry, I'll tell Feli—I mean, Mr. Veneziano, that you'll miss his lesson. I won't go into details, though, aru."

Thanking him again, I took my bag from his desk, checked the contents, and found everything where it should be, and made my way to the door.

"Hǔpò," Dr. Yao said.

I turned around.

"Ye—?"

My Science teacher hugged me without a word. He squeezed me warmly, a real friendly panda-hug. After a few moments, he pulled away, smiling.

"I thought you needed that, aru. Now, off you go!" he said, mock-shooing me away with his freakishly long sleeves.

I grinned, thanked him again, and walked out down the corridor and made my way to the P.E bloc.

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Apparently the omnipresent forces that had abandoned me earlier had reconsidered their harsh treatment, because I was saved the embarrassment of meeting anyone in the showers. I quickly washed, changed, and was out in minutes. Phew. Maybe this day was not so—

"Heeeeey!"

Oh for GOD'S—!

"What'cha doin' there?" a chipper, annoyingly loud American voice drawled. Mr. Jones, my P.E teacher, jogged up beside me in his tracksuit gear and trainers (or sneakers, if you're American).

"Going to my next class, sir. I had to take a shower," I said, walking a little faster. Inside, I panicked. _Please don't probe, please don't probe, please don't—_

"Oh? How come?" the insatiably curious American asked, innocent confusion all over his face.

"Long story," I sighed. God, Mr. Jones just had a knack of shoving his nose into people's businesses, whether they wanted him in it or not.

"I have time!" the young man laughed, as if he hadn't even registered the warning signals in my voice and my look.

"Sir, I really don't—"

"Aw, c'mon, you can tell me!" he cut in cheerfully. "I won't tell anyone!"

I shot him a look.

"Oh, like you said you weren't going to tell people I was having _that time of the month _when you saw me in the nurses' office last year!" I hissed savagely. "But, would you believe it, the moment I left the place I had people sniggering, asking how damn heavy I was, and chucking ketchup packets at me at lunchtime! 'Oooh, you're not very careful, are you, Amber?'I had to put up with that for a week!"

All my rage was pouring out like a burst dam, and I couldn't stop it now.

Mr. Jones stared at me through his rectangular glasses, blue eyes wide.

"W-well, gosh, I..." he mumbled. "I didn't know..."

"No, you never know anything!" I spat. "You're always too busy stuffing your stupid face with burgers and fries to notice anything, let alone me! Why don't you go to the kitchen and see if they have any and stay the hell away from me, alright?"

Before he could respond, I rushed away through playground and towards the main gate.

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**Lunchtime: (13.20pm)**

I quickly ate in the canteen, but just long enough to hear Chef Romano screaming and shouting at his assistants with such venom and profanity he'd put Gordon Ramsey to shame: "YOU CALL DIS PASTA? FUCK, MY DOG WOULD NOT PISS ON THIS ABOMINATION! THROW IT IN THE TRASH WHERE IT BELONGS OR I WILL KICK YOUR ASS TO CHINA!"

Woe betide the people who had school dinners, and would be served by an angry Italian shouting: "WHAT, YOU HAVE NO MONEY? WHAT AM I, A FUCKING CHARITY? NO MONEY, NO PASTA, THAT'S MY MOTTO! GET OUT, YOU'RE DISGUSTING! NEXT!" Seconds later Mr. Beilschmidt, who had been put on canteen duty, stormed in and yelled: "SHUT UP YOU CRAZY TOMATO FREAK, HOW DARE YOU SPEAK SUCH WORDS IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN!"

"OH, YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT, POTATO BASTARD?" came the bellowing reply from the kitchen. "COME IN HERE AND WE'LL SORT THIS SHIT OUT LIKE MEN-WITH APRONS AND BAGUETTES!"

"MAYBE I VILL!"

"COME ON THEN!"

"I'M COMING, HOLD YOUR HORSES!"

I ran out and buried myself away in the library before I could witness the "fight".

Apparently it was carnage...

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_(In the Library...)_

I noticed Mr. Kirkland, our school librarian as well as an English teacher, frowning thoughtfully at me from the corner of his eye as he sat reading a Dickens novel behind the counter, but didn't speak to or approach me.

Weird.  
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**Fifth Lesson: R.E –Religious Education- (14:20pm)**

Oooh, now _this _was more like it! Good old effeminate Mr. Feliks (called thus since no one could pronounce his last name) to brighten my day.

God knows how the young blond Pole became an R.E teacher in the first place. Sure, he was Catholic, like our school was (essentially), but his camp manner flew in the face of a certain topic the Church threw hissy fits about: that being _sexuality. _There was a poll going amongst our year for how long it would take until Mr. Feliks finally came out of the closet. So far, a lot of people had lost their lunch money.

"Like, hi guys!" Mr. Feliks sing-songed as he literally skipped into our classroom, twirling and them striking a wide, heroic pose at the front of the class, pointing dramatically in the air like someone who'd just spotted Chuck Norris in the sky. "_Let's do RELIGION!"_

I think I might have peed a little from laughing so much. Thankfully, everyone else seemed to be in the same state.

When we'd calmed down, Mr. Feliks announced himself.

"So, guys, great to be back and swinging sexy as always! Hope ya had a nice holiday—mine was shit, by the way. Stupid Liet and stupid economic crisis or whatever it's called...didn't let me go to Ibiza...stayed home watching chick flics..." He trailed off, muttering to himself. Noticing we were right there staring at him, Mr. Feliks cleared his throat and began the lesson.

"Right, guys and gals, here's the deal. We're gonna be learnin' 'bout good ol' Jesus Christ and the Passion...Yeah. That stuff. Y'know, how he kinda died and went up to Heaven and royally screwed over everyone's asses like "TAKE THAT! NO ONE KILLS JESUS CHRIST! Oh, and by the way, just for being assholes to me, your Empire's gonna go bye-bye in a couple'undered years. Toodles!"

We just couldn't control ourselves. Ah, why have comedy shows when you can just sit in Mr. Feliks' class and get it free of electricity charge?

"So yeah, Jesus is kinda like an internet troll. He says stuff, and people get rid of him, and then he turns up like 'LOL, I SAID BRB, YA LOSERS!' and POOF, he's back again!'

Some people were on the floor at this point. I couldn't blame them, to be honest. I was near joining them.

Mr. Feliks was laughing himself now.

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm like, totally gonna enjoy teaching ya this!"

Oh, Mr Feliks. You might be selfish, narcissistic, effeminate nut...But we love you.

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**End of Day (3:00 pm)**

Ahh. This was what school was about. A bit of drama, angst, crazy teachers, gay teachers, and a whole dollop of insanity thrown in. Thank God Mr. Feliks had been there to completely change my bad mood around. He didn't know it, but he was a Godsend that Monday afternoon.

All in all, it was a pretty good first day of the school year. I still had my issues to sort out, but I had plenty of time to do that in.

Right now I had time to kill and a few books to read on the bus home.

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	2. Kindness and a Scary Irishman

Chapter 2: Kindness and a Scary Irishman

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**Registration: (9:40am)**

Day Two of the first week back from Summer Hols. To be fair, I was feeling much better about this than usual. The second day was when it really hit home that, yes, you were going to go through this for another godforsaken year, and also when the depression kicked in for me. Not this time, though, despite the 'incident' the day before. Maybe it was Dr. Yao's unexpected, but certainly very much appreciated, hug afterwards, or maybe Mr. Feliks' gay preview of Christ's Passion in R.E. Probably both.

In any case, my spirits were far higher than I expected, and I entered my form room smiling.

The smile dropped from my face when I saw everybody looking at me and snickering. Shit. Should've known. The incident in the Science lab with the orange substance had gone round like wildfire thanks to this damn form of mine, and it was raging at its peak now. I just had to deal with the none-too-subtle whispers behind my head for the next week or so.

They knew all about it because they had been there when it happened. Every single one of the bastards had been sitting there and laughing while I bled and cried on the floor. A warm pressure pushed up from the back of my head, and I seethed quietly.

Oh universe, you just loved to screw me over back then.

Just as I took my seat alone at the front of the class (the taboo area, for some inexplicable reason), Mr. Beilschmidt marched in. He never walked, that man. Only marched; and, like a storm-trooper, would plough through anyone in his way like a tank. Kids would bounce off him left and right and lie dazed in a heap on either side of the corridors in his wake.

Scanning the room for ill-doers, and satisfied with finding everyone standing up behind their desks as usual, he went through the standard registration procedure, and dismissed us in the usual German manner—loudly, and like a military commander sending us off into No-Man's-Land.

Which, in a way, he was.

However, just as we were all filing out of the room, the stern man reached out and took hold of my shoulder, muttering into my ear.

"I'd like a quick werd wizh you."

Inside, I groaned. Oh God. Here it comes...

Although I was so glad he hadn't bellowed it out for the whole world to hear, and for my classmates to have another reason to sneer.

I broke away from the line and moved to Mr. Beilschmidt's orderly desk.

He waited until the very last kid had exited the room and shut the door behind him before addressing me with serious, piercing eyes. The German pulled up a chair so I could sit down and we could have a face-to-face conversation with no divide barring us.

"Now," he said. "I'm sure you alreazy know what I am going to say, but hear me out. Dr. Yao yesterday informed me of an incident in the Science lab where you were injured and ran out of the classroom. That class consists of this very form."

He paused a moment.

"I think I know you vell enough, Amber," he continued, "to know that you are not as clumzy as to trip over your own feet, and I know Dr. Yao enough that he would never allow a pupil's bag to obstruct the single path in between the two separate columns of desks in his classroom. It is therefore not so far-fetched to assume that you vere tripped. Am I correct?"

I nodded.

"Yes, sir. I remember feeling something force my foot back before I fell."

Mr. Beilschmidt frowned gravely.

"I am disgusted that one from my form would do such a zhing. And that the ozhers would mock you as they did. I intend to punish them severely. But that is not all I want to talk to you about. I vish to ask you somezing."

I blinked.

Mr. Beilschmidt's serious, hawk-like blue eyes never left mine. They delved into my mind, and considerately took in my most secret thoughts and emotions. It didn't feel like an interrogation, but a revelation. Someone was actually considering how I felt. It was the best feeling in the world.

Then he asked a question I would never have imagined he'd utter...

"Are you happy here?"

My mouth opened, like a dumb fish, unable to respond.

"I..."

What could I say?

I stared at my form tutor, at a loss.

"You don't have to ansver now," Mr. Beilschmidt assured, smiling. "I'm sorry for prezzuring you. Please, go to your Geography lesson. I'll write a note to inform Mr. Braginski vhy you were late."

I sat motionless, stunned, as he wrote on a small slip of paper. He handed it to me, and I took it silently.

"Now...I have those crazy Year Seven's to take care of," my form tutor said presently, standing up. Looking out the row of windows behind us on the other side of the room at the chattering crowd of kids gathering, he muttered: "Zhere they are...the little devils, all raring to drive me stark mad."

He chuckled despite himself.

I grinned shakily, got up, and collected my bag and coat from my desk.

"Thanks, Mr. Beilschmidt," I mumbled in a near-whisper, which was my usual audio level when speaking to others. Even Mr. Honda had trouble hearing me sometimes, and that said a lot.

Mr. Beilschmidt nodded politely, his expression softened. It really warmed your heart when a teacher like Mr. Beilschmidt let go of all his restraints and relaxed enough to smile like that.

"It was nozhing. You are my student—I do my best to ensure my all my students' contentment."

I smiled awkwardly, and made my way to the door.

"And Amber," he called after me. I turned my head round to listen.

"Yessir?"

"Think about vhat I said," he requested earnestly, looking me right in the eye.

I managed a small smile.

"Yes, sir."

Without another word, I left him and made my way to my Geography class.

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As I neared the classroom, I jumped as an almighty yell rang out: "FECKIN' KIDS, STAY AWAY FROM ME DRINK YA LITTLE SHITES!"

_Who the hell is that? _I remember thinking. Christ, we never had anyone with an Irish accent before. And certainly no-one who shouted at people for touching his drinks...well, except Mr. Beilschmidt's alcoholic albino brother Gilbert, but at least he didn't call us 'little shites'.

He called us 'little fuckers' instead. In German.

Much nicer.

At any rate, I had no clue of who the angry Irish man was. He could've been Winston Churchill himself and I wouldn't know. This wasn't surprising; since I had literally no-one to talk to in school I had zero clue of the goings on within it unless it was announced in form. Plus I was nigh-constantly confined to the library during break and lunch. So if a new teacher just so happened to waltz into the school, I wouldn't know about it until I heard he/she either yelling at someone or if she/he was teaching me. Heck, a horde of stampeding wildebeest could have rampaged through the school and I would be none the wiser.

I figured I had time to find out soon though.

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**First Period: Geography (10:00 am)**

"_Privet! _Welcome back everyone! I hope you enjoyed your holidays in nice warm places! I missed you in Russia, da!" jingled the thick, bouncing Russian from the front of the classroom. His lilac suit was more casually donned than Mr. Beilschmidt; buttons undone and white shirt showing in a broad horizontal stripe down, his trousers a touch too small. The curse of being frickin' huge. He wasn't fat, mind you—he would say so frequently when such was implied, and ate a strict amount each day to make his point—just very broad at the shoulders...and in general.

The cream scarf permanently wrapped around his neck didn't help things. He wore that thing day-in, day-out. It was his trademark. Hell, a heat-wave wouldn't deter this man from wearing that scarf. If he was being pulled into a weed-trimmer, he _still wouldn't take it off._

Ah well, I didn't mind. I was more concerned about his personality than his dress code. The majority of the time, he was a sweetheart. Always helpful, always concerned with how you were doing both in and out of class, and more than happy for one-to-one tutoring. I'd seen him give people random hugs as he passed them in the corridor. Nearly crushed the life out of them, but it's the thought that counts. The last day of school, he enveloped every one of us in his bone-crushing embrace as we left the classroom. I swore I punctured a lung.

There was a kind of sadness in the way he hugged us so tightly to his big chest, as if letting us go was more than he could bear. I don't think he had any friends either. The other teachers avoided him when possible, and he sat alone at lunchtime, eating whatever his older sister had prepared for him. He and I were very much alike in that respect, which is probably another reason I liked him. Mr Braginski always gave the impression of being unflinchingly eager to please, but always coming off as suffocating so that you wanted to haul ass away the moment he leaned over your desk, broad nose inches from your face. I personally didn't mind; I liked the closeness of human contact despite lacking it utterly.

However, Mr. Braginski's anger was like nothing on this earth. It was terrifying in its cold, brewing darkness, hanging about his smiling form like an aura of doom. He could smile even when seething with rage, and that scared the crap out of us.

When Mr. Braginski smiled in that cold, false way—we all took cover. Hell would be a picnic compared to the day that he finally snapped, which, thankfully, hadn't happened yet.

Yet.

You just had to be so, _so _very careful with your words and actions, it was almost scary. Anything could set the bomb ticking...

"Now, we will have a lot of fun with this topic, da!" the sandy-haired Russian went on cheerfully. "It's about how countries evolve over time and how they move! Obviously, everyone is being magnetically pulled towards Russia, and they will one day become one with it!"

Oh, yes, and he was obsessed with everything becoming one with his homeland. Nationalistic, much?

We just smiled and nodded. Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full, sir. That was the way it went in Mr. Braginski's class.

Or else.

And so the lesson went on, which Mr. Braginski mentioning how nicely everyone would fit into Russia three or four times a minute. We just sat there and smiled and said things like, "Oh yeah, Sir, definitely!", "Why bother being Spanish when I can become one with Russia?" and "MASS COUNTRY FUSION FOR THE WIN!". Ah, sarcasm. So glad Mr. Braginski knows nothing of you thus far.

Because if he did, we would probably be dead.

Suddenly the door burst open to reveal Mr. Braginski's crazy younger sister in all her raging hormonal glory.

"BROTHER!" she bellowed, "ALL THIS TALK OF BECOMING ONE MAKE ME HORNY! HAVE MY BABIES AT LUNCHTIME!"

"GO AWAY, GO AWAY, GO AWAY!" Mr. Braginski wailed, throwing himself under the desk and huddling there, trembling.

One of the bolder boys in our class stood up to defend our terrorised, childlike Geography teacher.

"Hey, bitch!" he yelled, "Why don't you leave him alone? He's freakin' terrified of you!"

At that Miss Arlovskaya brandished a freakishly huge steel compass (the ones used for studying maps) and aimed the razor point at the boy's head.

"I VILL CUT YOU, BOY!" she hissed with such feral viciousness my poor bold classmate shot right down and hid under the table, mimicking his terrified teacher.

"Natalya, do not threaten my students!" Mr. Braginski cried feebly, clumsily emerging from under his desk to confront his sister.

"Brother!" his crazy sister pleaded. "I am merely defending the sanctity of our union!"

"_What union?" _the terrorised Russian wailed. "We are not married!"

Miss. Arlovskaya grinned manically.

"Not yet, big brother," she purred, "but one day. _Oneeee daaaaay...!"_

Drawing out those raspy last words, demonic and bone-chilling, Mr. Braginski's younger sister slid the door shut, dark blue eyes alive with a rampant lust.

_Click._

She was gone.

Everyone stared at the door for a few moments, sharing a collective stunned silence. We were half-afraid she would burst through the door again and massacre us all with that damned compass of hers...

When several minutes passed without any such incident, Mr. Braginski deemed it safe for himself and my classmate to emerge from their hiding places, and resumed the introductory lesson as normal...or as normal as one could do after being verbally and almost physically violated by your psychopathic nymphomaniac of a sister carrying an oversized metal compass.

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After class had ended, and we all filed out of the room, I noticed Mr. Braginski looking curiously at me. I stopped and looked at him.

"Are you alright, _Yantarʹ_?[1]"

Seriously, what was with teachers calling their students by the literal translation of their names?

"You look a little sad," the Russian continued, peering at me with those large violet eyes.

I grinned awkwardly.

"Oh no, I-I'm fine, sir, thanks," I stammered, flushing self-consciously. The others behind me muttered irritably, eager to leave, and to be honest I couldn't blame them.

Mr. Braginski looked unconvinced, but was reluctant to press the issue.

"...O-K...but you must promise to come and talk to me if anything is bothering you, da?"

He looked genuinely concerned, and seemed to open himself up to me—to crush or embrace if I chose.

The wave of feelings washed over me in a horrible overwhelming mass of confusion and sudden rush of anxiety. Such affection, such care, so nakedly frank...So impossibly unnerving. A sickening pressure rose up from my gut. I couldn't deal with this. This was...wrong. What was this?

"I don't think that will be necessary," I whispered, before rushing out the door and not looking back.

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**Second Period: Drama (10.40am)**

I hurried to Drama class in an effort to drive the myriad writhing mess of emotions warring within me. Aching remorse for my rejection, rage at my aversion to affection...everything. I didn't know what to think anymore.

_"Are you happy here?"_

...

I...

"HALLO, MEINE KLEINE KÜKEN![2]" shouted a voice, jerking me violently out of my thoughts and right into the face of a albino German man, red eyes alive with mischievous intent, grinning fiendishly. He stood outside the Drama room as if he were the greatest being ever to grace our pathetic sorry lives. His ego rivalled Mel Gibson.

This was Mr. Beilschmidt's alcoholic brother, Gilbert, whom we called Mr. G to avoid confusion between the two.

They couldn't have been more different. Mr. Beilschmidt was the wooden block next to the psychedelic ooze in a lava lamp that was Mr. G; a raving, drunken hooligan of a man who quite frankly owned the drama department despite being subordinate to Mr. Bonnefoy. Wearing a loose black shirt with the words 'ICH MAG ES HART![3]' emblazoned across the front in bright glaring red capital letters, jeans and trainers, he was the epitome of a nutty teenager...or at least, a (self-proclaimed) _Prussian _nutty teenager.

He and Mr. Honda often clashed on the subject of how Prussia literally did not exist and was therefore ridiculous to call oneself a native of a country that wasn't even on the map, and had not been for centuries. Mr. G would just deny everything and go back to jamming on his Ipod while Mr. Honda prayed for patience.

I did the same now. With my choppy emotional state I really could not take the infuriatingly loud gusto of the albino man blaring incessantly in my ears the entire lesson.

But that's exactly what I got. Mr. G. Shouting. Loudly. About. Himself. The lesson didn't actually happen; it was just Mr. G going on about how bloody AWESOME his holiday was and the AWESOME things he did there, describing in detail his sexual exploits and drunken rampages through the city of Berlin, most of which I was convinced were the biggest lies since Mr. Bonnefoy proclaimed sexual abstinence.

I blocked him out as best I could, and instead focused on the question his more considerate brother had asked me earlier.

_"Are you happy here?"_

Was I? I didn't really know. I liked being by myself. I was better of that way. No hassle, no irritating loud voices to bombard me with confusing mixed signals and betrayal. Alone, I could listen to my own thoughts and decide things by my own volition, rather than be manipulated by others. Alone, I was free to be myself instead of who they wanted me to be. Alone, I was safe from harm. Alone, I was...

"He, Amber! Earth to Ruhiges Mädchen[4]!" a loud, brash voice yelled in my ears, or so it seemed.

I jumped and looked up at Mr. G sitting across from me, frowning slightly. We'd formed a circle of chairs for discussion, and after that I'd pretty much let my mind wander.

I hadn't a clue how to respond. My classmates sniggered amongst themselves.

"...Yes, sir?"

Some boys burst out laughing.

"How did your holiday go, I said!" Mr. G informed, somewhat huffily, as if I'd somehow offended him.

Wow, that was interesting. Mr. G had actually been asking everyone how their holidays went instead of boring us all barking mad with his own outrageous fibs of his own.

I fidgeted, not meeting anyone's gaze.

"Um, well..."

More giggles.

"I...I went to Garmisch Partenkirchen for three weeks...My dad's German and all..." I mumbled.

You'd think someone had detonated a nuclear bomb under Mr. G's crotch with the speed he vaulted off his chair and grabbed me by the shoulders, face inches away from mine.

"OH MEIN GOTT, YOU VENT TO GERMANY TOO?" he shouted, like I'd said I'd been to the Forbidden Planet or something. Ew. German spit. Cheers, sir, I needed a shower.

"Y—yes sir!" I stammered. Too close, too close...!

"SCHEIβE VE VERE THERE TOO!"

"I KNOW, I FIGURED AS MUCH!" I yelled back. Christ, what was his problem?

"YOU LIKE IT?"

"LIKE WHAT?" I cried, thinking he was referring to how he was violating my personal space.

"GARMISCH, YA SILLY GIRL!" he screeched excitedly, shaking me. "IT'S ROCKIN', JA?"

_'Rockin', ja?'? _What kind of messed up phrase was that? Was he completely insane?

"YES! MOUNTAINS, SHEEP, NICE AIR, NICE SHOPS—ALL GOOD!" I shouted, desperate to get this crazy Prussian man off me.

Meanwhile everyone was laughing. To be honest, the sheer insanity of the albino man practically on top of me in his enthusiasm made me laugh too. Made me feel less humiliated than I would have been otherwise.

Mr. G grinned hugely.

"AWEZOME!" he bellowed, jumping back into his seat again. If I had a pound/Euro/Yen/Rouble or whatever for every time that man uttered that one word, I could buy out every single country on the planet and put them up for rent. Not even kidding.

The crazy Drama teacher went on to completely change the subject and finally talk about what this year's Drama topic would entail for the last five minutes of the lesson: Expression and Emotions.

Hmm. Now _this _was my element. A chance to vent without causing grievous bodily harm to anything within a five-hundred-yard radius. I never actually did that. Hell, I never even got angry. I just satisfied myself by merely imagining what I could do if I ever did let the years of pent-up rage take hold.

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**Break: (11:00 am)**

I wandered back to the library and sat there for the remaining few minutes, awash in thoughts.

I felt Mr. Kirkland's frowning gaze on me, but again didn't utter a word.

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**Third Period: P.E (11.40am)**

Shit. Why, God, why? Why give me the lesson of the teacher I'd only yesterday yelled at and insulted horribly? Why? Ok, I admit I _may _have called the old bat down the street an old bitch, but...she'd called me a social reject! I didn't deserve this...!

"Hey, Amber! Come join us, we're warming up!" called a cheery American voice. I looked up to see Mr. Jones waving furiously at me from a few yards away where everyone was already lined up doing wildly exaggerated star-jumps. That was the only type of exercise Mr. Jones permitted, since it reminded him of the stars on the American Flag, and it was thus the most patriotic form of physical exertion in the world.

He was smiling all over his almost scarily-happy face.

I blinked. Wow. He wasn't even huffy. Shit, if he was Mr. Kirkland...

Thank God for the opposites of the world. I mean that.

I jogged over quick-smart and joined in with the rest of the class.

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After I'd changed, I ran to find Mr. Jones, and saw him warming up for his next lesson (star-jumps, yet again) outside in the playground.

I swallowed and clenched my teeth. I had to say something. I wouldn't forgive myself if I let it alone forever. I'd always kick myself for never setting things straight when I had the chance.

I approached him, wrestling with the part of me (called Inner Wimp) screaming at me to haul ass away before it was too late.

"Um...sir?"

"Yeah?" Mr. Jones panted cheerfully, not stopping his wild star-jumping routine.

"Um...I...I just wanted to say..."

Oh God...anxiety...pressure...

"I..."

I saw Mr. Beilschmidt and Mr. Gilbert smiling at me. They paid attention. They cared. Their voices floated back to my mind.

_"You are my student— I do my best to ensure my all my students' contentment."_

_"How was your holiday?"_

Something surged within me, something powerful.

"I'M SORRY I WAS SO RUDE TO YOU THE OTHER DAY!" I practically shouted out.

Mr. Jones abruptly stopped dead, and turned to stare at me with wide crystal-blue eyes.

"...You were worried about that?" he asked, grinning. "Don't sweat it! _I_ was in the wrong, I pushed you when you were obviously not in the mood to talk. Just like Arth—I mean, Mr. Kirkland!" He laughed. "Yeah, I'm sorry!"

I stared.

Wow. Mr. Jones was amazing. He'd just forgotten about it and forgiven me completely. He'd apologized. No teacher apologised...at least, not to me...

I smiled.

"Thank you, sir."

He beamed.

"No probs! Now, quickly get ta lesson, or your teacher'll chew you out!"

Oh crap. I'd forgotten about the next lesson! Shit!

I thanked him again and rushed off.

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**Fourth Period: R.E (12.20pm)**

"Okay, people, we're, like, gonna start with class prayers!" Mr. Feliks announced. "So stand up!"

We did so, grinning with anticipation.

Without another word, Mr. Feliks clasped his hands together, looked up to the heavens with the most hilariously distant and holy expression on his face, as if witnessing an exclusive edition of the Gay Times right before his eyes, and began.

"In the name of the FAATHER and the Son and the totally Holy Ghost, EH-men!" he drawled, rolling his eyes. We spluttered and hid our faces in our clasped hands.

"Today we're like, gonna thank you, Lord, for keeping these kids dozed up with enough drugs to stay calm throughout this totally stressful week. We pray said drugs won't kill them or get 'em addicted and stuff. We pray for inspiration to work like hell, or else have someone to beat our asses into working hard...or at least have the damn sense to remember homework last minute and do it right!...And finally, we pray that Liet's piles goes away soon, since it's like, totally dragging on my purse having him around my house and carin' for him! Okay, in the name of the FAATHER and the Son and the totally Holy Ghost, EH-men!"

Doing the sign of the cross, he sat down. We'd sat down way before him, since we were laughing too hard to remain upright and control our bladders at the same time.

Ah, Mr. Feliks. We loved you so much.

"Hey, like, calm down, guys!" the blond, green-eyed man scolded. "Lesson's started, let's do this!"

And so it began. I tell you, none of us ever read the Bible the same way again.

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**Lunch(13:20pm)/b**

Chef Romano and Mr. Beilschmidt were going at it again. ("FUCKING COME AT ME YOU NAZI GERMAN SAUSAGE!", "ARSCHLOCH[5], GET BACK TO YOUR TOMATOES AND YOUR CREEPY OLD FOLK!", "FUCK YOU, YOU GO BACK TO YOUR ROBOT STIFF PIECE'O'CRAPOLA BASTARD POTATO-SUCKING KRAUT CESS-POOL OF ARROGANT PIECES OF SHIT!", "BASTARD, I VILL RIP YOUR WEAK HAIRY PENIS CLEAN OFF AND FEED IT TO MY DACHSHUND POODLES!", "I HOPE THE DEVIL CHOKES ON IT!", _"AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!"[_then Mr. Beilschmidt lunged at the red-faced Italian, everyone cheering and placing bets, Mr. G shouting in the background: "GET 'IM VEST! SHOW HIM WHAT OF 10-YEARS BODY-TRAINING VITH ME CAN ACCOMPLISH!")

Yeah.

I got out of there in quite a hurry.

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As I made my way to the library, Mr. Veneziano (AKA, Mr. Feli for short, since the sweet Art teacher wanted everyone to be friendly with him and vice versa), came up to me.

"Ve~! Long time no see, Amber!" he cried, hugging me. I stiffened a little, and remained thus until he let go.

I smiled. His face was always practically glowing with kindness and openness it was impossible not to open your heart to him too. He was so unlike his hot-heated, foul-mouthed nut of a brother, Chef Romano.

"Hi, Mr. Feli," I said. But before either of us could say anything more, a slurring loud Irish voice bellowed across the front of the school.

"FECKIN' KIDS, FECK OFF MY LAWN...I JUST...C-CLEEEN'D THARR YA BASTARDS...DAMNNN YEH ALLLL...TA...HELLLL...!"

A thump, and we ran over to see a collapsed red-haired man with probably the world's second-largest eyebrows (next to Mr. Kirkland, the reigning champion) lying against the wall next to a broom and other cleaning equipment and discarded bottles of whiskey. Dressed in loose labouring garb, he looked like a...

"Don't tell me he's...?"

"Yup. This is Colin McCarthy, Mr. Kirkland's Irish brother, and the new caretaker," Mr. Feli explained sheepishly.

"This drunken nut?" I cried incredulously. "He's crazy, he yells and swears and collapses from alcohol excess! How the hell'd he get the job?"

The unconcious Irishman muttered and fumbled in his sleep, words sounding like _"Feck...women...g-gimmie...booze...feck off, Arthur...ya...little...twat...!"_

"Lord knows," the young Italian admitted. "Maybe Mr. Kirkland pulled some strings."

I stared incredulously. It was beggar's belief that a stiff, rule-abiding and no-nonsense man like Mr. Kirkland would do such a thing. But what else could get a person like the man lying snoring loudly at our feet a demanding job like this...?

Mr. Feli shrugged, smiling awkwardly.

The bell rang, we said our goodbyes, and went to our next lessons. Him to teach, me to learn.

...Hopefully.

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**Fifth Period: Maths (14:20pm)**

Mr. Beilschmidt greeted us all in his typical commander-like fashion, and ran through the lesson. Algebra. Hooray. Thank you, Life, I couldn't go another minute without having more shit shoved in my brain. Maths was and always will be the bane of my existence. My brain just refuses to work with numbers. My eyes see numbers, and my brain instantly switches off and switches on the telly to watch soaps and eat junk.

Thank God Mr. Beilschmidt is one of the most methodical and enduring teachers known to man or he would have despaired with kids like me long ago. It made you feel so much relief when a teacher treated you like someone who could achieve rather than a hopeless case in whatever subject you were bad at. As he had done the previous year, Mr. Beilschmidt patiently ran me through everything one-to-one with the calm of one who had been through so much (*cough*Mr. Feli*cough*) nothing fazed him anymore. This was a frolic in the park compared to having the needy Italian hanging around his legs throughout the day.

But, regrettably, even with the best teachers, there are dicks who will take the piss. One such dick was a boy named Gary Hartman. Big, piss-yourself-ugly, and a giant douche all-round. It was a miracle he even turned up. Probably because he enjoyed shitting on everybody's education. Unfortunately for him, he picked the wrong man to piss off.

Not even fifteen-minutes through the lesson, Gary had crossed the line. He told one joke too many, and disrupted one minute too long. Mr. Beilschmidt had had enough. So, out of nowhere, and with such furious violence of movement that we all jumped back in our seats, the tall German man whirled round, face bright scarlet, and bellowed at the boy at the top of his lungs:

"_GET OUT! I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR FOOLING! IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO LEARN AND LET OZHERS LEARN, GET YOUR IGNORANT, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING ASS OUT OF MY CLASSROOM!"_

Gary stared, bewildered, but then grinned.

"Ooooh, old Sour-Kraut's angry! Sour-Kraut's—!"

Before the stupid boy had even finished his taunt, Mr. Beilschmidt, livid with rage, lunged forwards, seized Gary by the hair, yanked him out of his seat, dragged him kicking and screaming across the room, threw him bodily out of the door, slammed it shut with an almighty BANG with a roar of **"AND STAY OUT!",** stormed back to the front of the class, collected himself, and carried on the lesson as if nothing of the above had just taken place in the last whirling few minutes.

The moral: DO NOT FUCK WITH MR. BEILSCHMIDT.

HE WILL OWN YOUR SORRY ASS.

Class ended with a buzz and a cheer for our good old no-nonsense maths teacher. Even though he tried to dismiss our praise, everyone could tell by his grudging smile that he was pleased.

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**End of day: (15:00pm)**

Walking out of the school gates, a classmate of mine whose name I later found to be Janice approached me somewhat awkwardly. I stared at her warily.

"Yeah?"

She was a slight girl with bouncy brown plaits and freckles. Fumbling a little, she spoke.

"Um...just thought I'd let you know, in Drama...Mr. G didn't discuss any of our holidays at all."

I stared.

"What? You mean...I was the only one he asked?"

"Yup."

"Uh...how come?" I asked, completely flabbergasted.

She shrugged.

"God knows. He was in the middle of going on about his 'uber-awesome' rampage through Berlin when he stopped and saw you kinda staring into space and looking, y'know...a bit out of it. Then he asked you about your holiday. Thank God he did, or else I think I'd've died right there."

I laughed.

"So I actually inadvertently saved all your asses," I said, grinning.

Janice returned the gesture.

"Yeah...Well, see ya!"

She waved, and ran off to join her friends.

I smiled, and felt a strange warm feeling come over me all at once. It was so foreign a sensation I was more than taken aback by it, but I let it stay.

Things were looking up, apparently.

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TO BE CONTINUED!

* * *

><p>TRANSLATION NOTES:<p>

[1]"Yantar'": Russian for 'Amber'. If I'm wrong, please someone correct me on this please ^^

[2]"MEINE KLEINE KÜKEN!": German for "My little chicks!"

[3] 'ICH MAG ES HART!': "I Like It Hard"

[4] "...Ruhiges Mädchen!": "Silent Girl"

[5] "Arschloch": "Asshole"


	3. Still Life and Bloody Wankers

Chapter 3: Still Life and Bloody Wankers

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**Registration: (9:20am)**

If it had been socially acceptable for a fourteen-year-old girl to do so, I would have shamelessly skipped to school and hugged every damn sod in it (even the teachers...except Chef Romano). For the first time in years somebody had actually engaged me in conversation of their own free will—and enjoyed it! Even if it was for about thirty seconds. I'd made a friend (more or less)! I was not a social reject doomed to permanently hibernate in my house and become food for a hungry Alsatian when I waste away and die! Hooray!

Looking in the mirror before I left my house, I gazed at my small, skinny body, my navy school uniform loose on me even in its smallest size, defined jaw line sharpening my features so I looked older than I really was. Dark blue eyes gazed meekly up through a floppy fringe were brighter now than they had been in a while, face framed by untameable wavy locks of chocolate-brown.

This was me, myself, I.

And for once, I liked what I saw. For the first time, I acknowledged myself. This was what I was, and nothing could change or criticise that. How dare they? There was nothing wrong with me. _They _were the ones that were wrong! Besides, I'd spoken to someone, and they'd been fine with it! I hadn't been creepy or awkward, just normal. The conversation had gone fine, and now I was going to try and make more of them happen with Janice and actually hang around with someone other than my shadow.

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Sitting in form beaming, none of my classmate's whispers even registered in my mind anymore. Mr. Beilschmidt gave me a curious look as he entered the room, then smiled with visible relief.

As we all filed out, Mr. Beilschmidt gave me a pat on the back.

"I von't ask vhat happened," he said, piercing blue eyes softened, "But I am glad you are happier."

I nodded vigorously.

"Yessir. I made a friend, sir!" I explained excitedly.

"Sehr gut! Wundebar!" my form tutor exclaimed, clapping me on the shoulders, "Vell, I hope she or he is the best friend one could ever ask for."

I beamed.

"I'm sure she will be, sir!"

With a highly unnecessary, but reciprocated, salute, Mr. Beilschmidt saw me out of the classroom as he stood to attention at the door, expression a mixture of pride, relief...and concern.

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**First Period: History (10:00 am)**

Well, no-one saw that coming. Mr. Honda shuffled noisily into class clad in a samurai uniform way too big for him. When questioned about this, of course through the splutters of laughter, the offended Japanese man explained it was to 'heighten the atmosphere' of the time period we were studying. Oh, it heightened something alright; the pitch of everybody's voices in the room as they laughed at his expense. I pursed my lips to try and stop myself from joining in, but it was too much.

Behind the intimidating and hugely-oversized war-helmet, Mr. Honda flushed.

"How dare you raff! This is the armour of an honourable warrior who fought against the barbarians invading his precious homerand!" he protested, drawing his sword in a flash and slamming it onto the desk with such violence we all shut up instantly.

Mr. Honda's anger left him suddenly, as it always seemed to, and he looked down to find that he'd chopped his own desk in half, along with the laptop and paperwork that had sat atop it, now lying in a messy heap on the floor.

"Oh my. There goes my monthly budget," he remarked, frightening composure returning from its brief departure to the Land of Temporary And Violent Anger at the back of the young man's mind. "Oh well."

Sheathing his sword, Mr. Honda awkwardly turned himself around (this took a few minutes), and began the lesson, totally ignoring the devastation of papers and sliced-desk lying right next to him.

Most of the lesson was wasted in the time it took for the Japanese man to actually move to any part of the room to help us out; having to thrust each leg out individually with tremendous force and tennis-player-like grunt to make any sort of reasonable step forward, and jump and twirl around like a ballerina who'd fallen in a scrap-metal yard to turn round.

I could've sworn I saw people filming this gold-mine of comedy on their Iphones while Mr. Honda had his back turned. One of them being a cackling Dr. Yao who happened to be passing by.

That video would go viral in the space of half an hour, and have creamed in half a million views by the next day.

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**Second Period: Art (10.40am)**

"Ve~! Welcome back everybody~!" sang a happy Italian voice, as its owner turned round to greet us from the giant white canvas he had seemingly just began to work on.

We recoiled. His entire face and body was _covered_ in paint. Not an inch of skin was visible. Not an inch of white artist garment was detectable to the human eye. Not even his pink beret was spared. It was as if the angry gypsies that camped out down the road from the school had finally succeeded in dunking shit on the oblivious Italian's head. Even his trademark hair-curl was drenched and sagging.

"Christ, sir, what've you been doing?" we cried, in unison.

"Oh, painting myself!" the cheerful young man chirruped, without missing a beat.

We gaped.

"_What?" _one girl exclaimed. "Why the hell are you doing that?"

Mr. Feli grinned. Hell, even his TEETH were multicoloured with that damn stuff.

"Our new topic is Still Life!" he giggled. "We are living, which means we can be the subjects of art! We can paint ourselves in all different colours of the rainbow and I'll take cool pictures of you while you pose in fun ways!"

...I don't think I need to elaborate the frantic, disturbed thoughts racing through everybody's head (including mine) when our teacher uttered those words. Hell, Mr. Feli might as well have strapped a 'HELLO, I AM A PEDOPHILE! I'M ALSO ITALIAN!' sign on his forehead, flashing in glaring neon colours of the Italian flag.

"...You do realise all the things that are wrong with what you just said, right?" I asked him in disbelief.

The carefree Italian laughed.

"Nope! Is there? Oh well, come on, let's get started~!" He skipped—I repeat, SKIPPED—round the tables and to the threshold of the door where we had huddled in a self-protective group to defend ourselves against the innocent advances of our dense young art teacher, but were helpless to resist his adorable smile and hands as they playfully grabbed each one of us (by the hand, mind you) and frolicked back across the room (yes, even with the boys), and gave us all buckets of paint, a brush bigger than our own heads, and a pitifully-small white flannel to 'wash ourselves with'—you know, the useless tiny things you get given on top-class flights to places? Yeah, that was what Mr. Feli deemed completely reliable to use as a substitute shower.

"Mr. Feli, if our own bodies are the subjects of art, why did you bother getting your canvas out?" one girl questioned. It struck us all then that the Italian had indeed been painting himself in front of the giant canvas now standing neglected in the corner.

Mr. Feli stared into the middle distance, as if the thought had never once even breached the thick Fort-Knox style skull of his.

"Hmm. I have absolutely no idea whatsoever!" he concluded, giggling stupidly, and prancing off to get more buckets of paint. "I just do things the moment they come into my head!"

_Yes,_ sir. That is why we were afraid of you did the craziest shit known to man. You bugged Mr. Braginski's room because you were convinced he was the devil (although some people were with you on that one)! You drank yourself stupid on Lucozade because Mr. Jones said it transformed you into a superhero every chick with half a brain would want to pound (his exact words)! AND YOU THOUGHT THAT WAS PERFECTLY NORMAL?

We had a ton of fun, though, as we always did in Mr. Feli's class. Covering ourselves with paint and posing shamelessly, even when the Deputy Head we dubbed Mr. Sour-Face walked in, blond-haired, stiff, and frowning. We just laughed in his stunned face. Mr. Feli was like marijuana. He just let your mind run free and feral in the midst of a psychedelic free-for-all of paint and other messy materials being flung wildly around the room.

Nobody screwed with him, though. Not because he'd rip your head off, like Mr. Beilschmidt, make you rue the day you were born, like Mr. Honda, traumatize you and inflict harrowing punishments, like Mr. Braginski, or even stone-wall you with occasional sarcastic comments at your expense, like Mr. Kirkland.

He was just too nice. You'd make a fool out of him, and he would forgive you in seconds. If he actually figured out you'd made fun of him the first place, which was unlikely.

"Sir, when we expand on this topic, we don't have to get naked, do we?" one worried boy asked.

Mr. Feli smiled at him and said: "No!" and then added, without any hint of shame or compunction: "Unless you want to!"

At that moment, every single one of us had a telepathic connection that lasted only for a few seconds, but in which we all thought exactly the same thing:

God speed, Mr. Beilschmidt. God speed.

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**Break: (11:00 am)**

I scoured the school grounds and building for Janice. I was not stalking, I told myself. I'm merely seeking her out without her knowledge. That is completely different. Besides, I had no real clue of where she would actually be, so it wasn't surprising that I didn't find her at any stage during break.

I later heard that Mr. Kirkland had actually inquired as to my whereabouts, apparently quite worried. The library was practically my 'other home' at the school, and there wasn't a second of free time I hadn't spent there, so his concern was justified.

Wait, Mr. Kirkland was worried? Wow. He must've had serious tea-withdrawal symptoms to actually give two shits about...anything, let alone my absence from his library.

As a bonus, I also gained the knowledge that Mr. Kirkland's crazy Irish brother, Mr. McDick, as people around the school were starting to refer to him as, was actually living in the Brit's house, for reasons unknown.

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**Third Period: Psychology (11.40am)**

"Alright, everyone! Hope you all had a great holiday, and met some cute boys and girls to make sexy young love to! Or someone of your own sex, maybe, whatever you're into! I won't judge!" proclaimed the vivacious and understanding pretty brown-haired woman standing before us. Clad in her smart nut-brown skirt and cream waist-jacket, skin-coloured tights and black heels, which complimented her long flowing auburn hair, she was a picture that turned most heads. The look on the Hungarian woman's face when she said those last words reminded us of an obsessed Twihard envisioning their wedding with Edward Cullen/Jacob Black.

This was Ms. Héderváry. Resident liberal mind and campaigner of homosexuality purely for her own personal fetish. We knew this, because one day last year, when she had been fishing through one of her cupboards, tons of male Playboy magazines along with Japanese yaoi comics (courtesy of Mr. Honda, although he fiercely denied any involvement) poured—literally, _poured _out, in their masses—out onto the floor at her feet. There were so many of them, that in the time it took for Ms. Héderváry to frantically put them all back, we'd already had a disturbingly close look at her prized guilty pleasures. Apparently some people had nightmares for weeks after.

The Hungarian woman was ex-wife of the current Music teacher, Mr. Edelstein, but despite their separation, it was all too obvious they still felt for each other. Hell, just looking at them gaze at each-other longingly from after, Mr. Edelstein venting his angst onto the piano and Ms. Héderváry increasing her obsession with male porn, just made you want to scream in their faces: "JUST FUCK EACH OTHER ALREADY!"

But we valued our lives, so no such thing happened.

Back in the lesson, Ms. Héderváry was letting us in on this year's topic, as was expected.

"This year," she began, with a bright smile that relaxed all your stressed brain-cells into a lull of calm, "we will be studying how deficiencies in the brain's chemical functions cause mental conditions, along with other things. Right now, I'll be giving you a trial lesson just to get you into the swing of how the future ones will work."

With that, the Hungarian pulled down a screen in front of the whiteboard, turned on the projector machine sitting on her desk, and brought up a diagram of a human head, in which we could see the brain—which we then noticed was miniscule. An arrow pointing to it read: 'GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT'S BRAIN'.

Ohhhh shit.

"_This," _she announced, smacking the image with unnecessary vigour, "is what the mind of a _dolt_ looks like!" Her voice was dripping with venom and spite. "Note how TINY and IGNORANT and DEVOID OF HUMANITY it looks! Pitifully tiny brains like this are notorious for causing the unfortunate host to rely purely on base instinct; leading to sexual bestiality, stupidity, and arrogance that would rival the (very sexy) porn-fodder that is David Beckham!"

It was as if Ms. Héderváry had taken up teaching Psychology for this sole moment. She went on ranting about the deficiencies of Mr. G's brain for another half hour, her voice rising in volume until it was a screech, as all her composure fell away to reveal a raging hormonal teenager in desperate need of anger management. Heck, as she yelled out the last words, she began hitting the screen with a wooden ruler with intent to kill.

"AND THAT IS WHY A SORRY INDIVIDUAL POSSESSING SUCH A WEAK, PATHETIC, DICK-HEADED MIND AS THIS SHOULD THANK HIS LUCKY STARS THAT HE'S MADE IT THIS FAR IN LIFE WITHOUT BEING MAIMED, DISFIGURED, OR OBLITHERATED FROM THE FACE OF THE EARTH AT THE HANDS OF EVERYBODY HE'S MADE HIS LIFE'S GOAL TO MAKE THEIR LIVES HELL! IF THERE WERE TWO KINDS OF PEOPLE IN THE WORLD, THOSE WHO DESERVE TO LIVE AND THOSE WHO'S ONLY VALUE IN LIFE IS AS AN ORGAN DONAR, **HE'D DAMN WELL BE THE LATTER!"**

With a yell of fury, Ms. Héderváry drove the ruler straight through the tiny brain of the image on the screen, right through the board and into the wall. She let it stick there, panting with exhaustion, and fuming.

We suddenly feared for Mr. G's safety, and made it our duty to warn him of the crazy woman who wished to kill him dead with a ruler she drove through a wall.

God speed, Mr. G, God speed.

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**Fourth Period: Music (12.20pm)**

Mr. Edelstein welcomed us into his classroom with a curt, snotty bellow of: "YOU'RE LATE!"

We stared at him, outraged, and all in unison turned to stare at the clock sitting above the piano the stuffy Austrian was presently sat at, pounding the keys in irritation.

It was two seconds past the time.

God. Mr. Beilschmidt was like Mr. Carriedo, our Spanish Agricultural Science teacher, who let us turn up practically whenever we wanted and do whatever we felt like, compared to this guy.

But it was pointless to argue. You'd just get the 'Piano Treatment' from the angry Austrian man. We just apologised and went to our seats.

Mr. Edelstein had not moved from the grand, almost scarily-spotless piano to his desk—his desk WAS the piano.

"Now," he announced, turning around in his stool to stare at us with an unreadable expression on his face. "I hope you all had a relaxing holiday—but now I expect nozhing but fine music from you people, and if I don't get it, ZHIS DRUMSCHTICK—" [he brandished a long, thin drumstick at us like Mr. Kirkland had done with Herr Schtick] "VILL GO STRAIGHT UP WHERE ZHE SUN DOES NOT SHINE! VERSTANDEN?"

Horrible images assaulted our tender young minds, and we shuddered like the three trembling substitute teachers always did.

"...Yessir."

The Austrian nodded in satisfaction, pocketing his deadly weapon.

"Now, I expect you all have your chosen pieces to perform for us today?"

We all nodded. It would have been suicide to neglect Mr. Edelstein's summer assignment, which was to basically choose a piece of music to play on a specific instrument the OCD Austrian had made damn sure we were at least adequate at performing on.

"Any volunteers?"

Nobody moved.

Mr. Edelstein rolled his eyes.

"Fine, I'll choose one, zhen! Eeenie meanie minee..."

Waving his finger around in the air, his eyes fell upon me, but then deviated to an unfortunate boy sitting behind me.

Phew.

And so the torture began. Not to say that some of my classmate's pieces weren't good—they were, until _they _bloody sang 'em. Or else did a rock and/or rap version of otherwise beautiful, slow songs of classical brilliance (this applying to all the boys in my class). Just kidding, they were pretty good. Although one or two made you question their sense of hearing. One girl reached such a high pitch that we all recoiled in horror, and Mr. Edelstein checked his glasses to make sure they hadn't cracked.

As the end of the lesson approached, only I was left.

Scheiβe.

"O-K, Amber! What piece do you have to perform for us today?" the Austrian questioned, leaning back in his chair as a way of saying: 'Oh, this will be good...*cough*not*cough*'.

I clenched my teeth, stood up, and faced the class.

"My piece is a song called 'Gravity' by artist Yoko Kanno. I'll be needing the piano, sir, so...if you could..."

A few girls tittered.

Mr. Edelstein sharply told them to be quiet, and bade me start as he moved off his seat and to one at the back of the class.

I took my music sheets over to the piano, sat, and stared at the keys. I breathed out slowly, imagining with every fathom of imagination I possessed that I was in an empty room, and I could let my soul out onto this instrument to fill the room with my sounds.

Calm, I began to play. Solemnly, serenely, my fingers flowed across the keys to form a slow, sorrowful, yet enduring melody that proclaimed the hope that was blossoming within me, and the long road of loneliness I had walked to get to this point in my solitary life. I poured my heart into the piano, felt a sensation of floating on air, completely enraptured in the harmony of music in my ears.

I sang.

_"Been a long road to follow _

_Been there and gone tomorrow _

_Without saying goodbye to yesterday _

_Are the memories I hold still valid? _

_Or have the tears deluded the~m?_

_Maybe this time tomorrow _

_The rain will cease to follow _

_And the mist will fade into one more today _

_Something somewhere out there keeps ca~lling..._

_Am I going home?_

_Will I hear someone, singing solace to the silent moo~n? _

_Zero gravity, what's it like~?_

_A~m I alone~?_

_Is somebody there beyond these heavy aching feet? _

_Still the road keeps on telling me to go on~ Something is pulling me I feel the gra~vity of it all..."_

I finished, and sat as if waking from a dream in the midst of silence. My heart thudded. Oh God, did I screw up? Did I just humiliate myself for the whole class to witness?

Suddenly the silence was smashed as furious clapping erupted from the back of the class. I turned to see Mr. Edelstein standing up from his seat, almost beside himself with emotion, clapping like a seal on steroids, smiling from ear to ear.

"Oh, bravo! Bravo, I say!" he cried, unable to contain himself. Soon the whole class was clapping and cheering. It was all so sudden and so huge a reaction I instantly believed they were all taking the piss, and stood abruptly to collect my papers and leave.

A hand on my shoulders stopped me.

I looked up at Mr. Edelstein's dimpled smiling face.

"That, meine Mädchen[1], was one of the best performances I have ever witnessed at this school!" he said, with genuine feeling. "So much emotion! Your voice! Perfect timing and recital! I...I need I need to tell someone about this, excuse me, class dismissed!" And with those rushed, ecstatic last words, the thrilled Austrian grabbed his bag and rushed out of the room yelling for Mr. Beilschmidt to get his stiff German arsch[2] over here and listen to him.

...Wow. Christ, I may as well have been the reincarnation of Mozart, minus the wig and the penis, from how Mr. Edelstein had reacted.

Everybody else was staring at me; some in awe, some whispering, others biting back their jealousy.

I couldn't take this much undivided attention, and so I left as quickly as I could while avoiding meeting people's eyes, and I made my way to the main building, secretly brimming with pride. I couldn't wait to find Janice and tell her about this...

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**Lunch **(13:20pm)****

I found her. Sitting by herself on one of the round wooden tables plotted around in the open-air area at the back of the school, picking at her salad, and looking bored. It was a pretty mild sunny day, and quite a few people were milling around, chatting.

I moved over, and hovered close, fighting back the nerves. What if I messed up and she ended up thinking me a complete emotional fuckwit like Simon Cowell?

Then I thought: What would Mr. Kirkland say?

_"Get in there, you bloody wench!"_

Ok, what would Mr. Honda say?

_"Proceed with caution—failure will bring shame on the ghosts of your ancestors!"_

Ashamed ancestors aside...What would Mr. Braginski say?

_"Ufufu, tell her to become one with you! If that fails, get a brick! Works for me, kolkol!"_

Murder quite firmly aside...Come on, a sane voice, please? Ah, Mr. Beilschmidt!

_"Just be yourselv. Polite, conziderate, and friendly. If she rejectz you, then she was not worth your time in the first place."_

Good old Mr. Beilschmidt. Giving good advice even when a mere figment of my over-worked and unhealthily-vivid imagination!

I decided to just go over there and do it.

I fumbled next to her, catching her attention.

"Er...hi there," I greeted, doing my damndest to sound cheerful to mask the awkwardness. "Mind if I sit here?"

She stared at me with nervous green eyes, and looked over her shoulder for something.

"Um...uh...I don't think that's a good idea..." she mumbled, fiddling with her new plaits.

I stared.

"What? Why? You're alone, I'm alone...it's cool, right?" I questioned, trying to keep my voice level. I couldn't blow it now...

But Janice was not having it. She continued to look nervously around for something or someone that would show up.

"Um...well, you see...We can't..."

"'Can't'?" I repeated, spitting out the word. "Why? What's wrong with me? Why can't we be friends, what possible reason can you have to say you're out of bounds for me? Huh?" My anger was taking over. I could feel it. That heat at the back of my head was rising and clouding my thoughts with a black cloud. Fuelling it was desperation and hurt. Wasn't I good enough for her? Good enough for anyone? Why?

"I-it's not that..." she stammered, not meeting my eyes. "It's..."

"Is this girl bothering you, Janice?" a deep, imposing voice boomed.

My heart sank. Shit, of course. Clarisse Ellis and her lapdogs, Tara Phillips and Demi George. The school Bitch Brigade. Walking up behind the understandably-agitated Janice, they made a wall of flesh and mean behind her small frame.

They glared at me through their narrowed, piggy eyes.

"What'd you want, Farrow?" they demanded coldly.

"I just asked if I could sit with her, calm your tits," I shot back. I looked at Janice for support. "Right?"

She mumbled something, and looked down at her feet.

"Well, she obviously doesn't want you here," Clarisse concluded bluntly, putting a powerful hand on the girl's skinny shoulder. "Her mom told us to keep anyone she doesn't want around away, so that's what we're gonna do."

"Oh, don't give me that shit," I retorted. "You're just raking in the opportunity to terrorise people like you always do!"

They sneered.

"So? Still doesn't give you the right to sit with this girl," Tara said, leering.

"It gives me all the more damn reason to sit with her!" I snarled. "Janice, for God's sake say something!"

I gazed at the brown-haired girl imploringly. If she remained silent, it was all over.

"Amber..." she whispered.

My hopes soared.

"I think you should go."

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Everything collapsed. Bit by bit, everything from my happiness, hope, all the praise, all the support, all the laughs, I had experienced throughout this day as a start of a new life, were obliterated, and lay shattered at my feet.

I stared at the girl who had destroyed my dreams, and exploded with such fury I terrified myself.

"THEN FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU TO HELL!" I screamed. "I DON'T NEED A WEAK, PITIFUL LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT LIKE YOU! I DON'T NEED ANY OF YOU TO BE HAPPY! I DON'T NEED **ANYBODY! _ALL OF YOU JUST FUCKING DIE!"_**

Tears streaming, every pore of my body aching, my throat burning, I ran. I just ran, and ran, until my legs were ready to give. I ran to the very end of the school, to the big oak tree that no-one ever sat under, threw myself down on the earth at its roots, and howled.

_No, Mr. Beilschmidt, _I choked through my cries_. _I'm not happy here. I'm not happy at all!...__

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**Fifth Period: English (14:20pm)**

I don't know why I turned up to English class that day. I really don't. Perhaps I was so desperate for company that even the dysfunctional madness of Mr. Kirkland's classes was appealing to my worn emotional state. Perhaps deep down I knew company was the only thing that could save me from myself because of that.

Whatever it was, I sat there at the back of the class, despondent and staring into the distance unseeing. Mr. Kirkland surely noticed, but did not point it out.

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**End of day: (15:00pm)**

When class ended, I remained seated, head in my folded arms. I just didn't want to move anymore.

Mr. Kirkland moved over and crouched down beside me, placing a hand on my back.

"Hey," he said, in a soft voice I have never imagined him capable of. "I heard about your argument with those bloody bitches at lunchtime. You have to forget about that Janice girl, forget all of it. She wasn't your last hope of friendship, you know. There are millions of people out there, and plenty of them will be more than willing to befriend you, I promise."

"Oh yeah?" I sniffed. "How the hell many more years am I gonna have to spend alone before that happens?"

"You won't have to wait at all if you do what you did today," came the even response.

I stared at him bitterly.

"What, get rejected?"

"No. Find the courage you possess to crush your fears and approach others against all odds."

I couldn't respond to that. I moved my head to one side and stared at my gruff, strict English teacher, face softened and rational now as he led me out of despair.

Suddenly, Mr. Beilschmidt entered the room, saw me, and hurried over, following Mr. Kirkland's gesture on the over side of my desk.

"Oh mein Gott, Amber, I..." he began, at a loss of what to say. "I should have done somezhing...I should have been there to..."

I was quick to dismiss his words.

"No, sir, it's not your fault," I said, feeling a little guilty myself for the worry so evident in the German. He'd been secretly afraid of this, as had I. But neither of us could have prepared for _that..._

"But as your teacher I failed to guide you properly..."

"Ludwig, stop that, she's not a child!" Mr. Kirkland reproached. I smiled slightly. It was fun when the teachers called each other by their first names. "You were right to give her lease to handle her own life. Yes, she needs a little guidance, but first she needs to decide what changes she needs to make to the way she deals with others in order to move forwards. You can't argue with that."

Mr. Beilschmidt locked eyes with the stern Brit, and sighed, nodding.

"Ja, you are right," he conceded, before looking at me and saying: "Now, Amber, what do you think you could change about your life that could make things easier for you to get to know others better?"

I thought about it. There was one glaringly obvious one.

"Well, I could stop going to the library so often..."

"Took the words right out of my mouth!" Mr. Kirkland chuckled. "Yes, that is indeed one thing."

"Um...maybe, join some clubs?"

"Ja! That's it," Mr. Beilschmidt encouraged. "I would recommend the Music Club Mr. Edelstein is running...I won't hear the end of it if you don't The man would not stop raving about how amazing your piano performance today was—I had to shove the rest of my wurst into his mouth to shut the dummkopf up!"

I laughed, picturing the scene.

The bushy-browed British man smiled.

"You see? Hide away from others, and they will hide from you. Do the opposite, and there is no reason that you won't make friends."

"Ja! Exactly!" my form tutor agreed, clapping me on the back.

I sat up, beaming.

"Thanks," I said. I was just so happy, I couldn't believe it. "Thanks...so much."

They smiled, a little awkwardly, not used to such frank feelings.

"Kein problem," the German said, rubbing the back of his head distractedly.

"Think nothing of it—we couldn't have our best student unhappy now, could we? You're the only reason I bother to get up and burn my scones in the morning!" The Brit snickered. "Oh, and about that Janice's 'bodyguards'...Sod 'em! They're all bloody wankers! Keep calm and carry on, as I always say!"

"Actually, you've only said that once. Just now," Mr. Beilschmidt put in.

"Shut up, it's a figure of speech!"

"That still makes no sense. You call yourself an Englizh teacher?" the German teased, sneering.

"Oh my God, get out of my classroom you bloody Kraut!" Mr. Kirkland snapped, shooing him out the room like an old granny. He looked at me with a half-hearted frown. "You'd better be off to. Don't want to make your parents worry, eh?"

"No, sir," I said, smiling, and leaving my saviours behind as I walked, still smiling, down the corridor towards the front hall and out.

As I walked out the door, I accidently kicked over a bottle of booze. Instantly an angry Irishman with flaming red hair burst into my line of sight.

"WHAT DOES A MAN HAFFTA DOO TA KEEP SAFE A PINT'A GUINNESS 'ROUND 'ERE?" he slurred furiously, jabbing his mop at me lance-style. "OFF WI' YEH, YEH DAMN WENCH!"

I gave him a sweet smile, and replied:

"Wench with a home!"

I ran home laughing, with Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Beilschmidt holding back the enraged Irishman all set to assault me with his mop.

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TO BE CONTINUED!

TRANSLATION NOTES:

[1] "meine Mädchen": My girl.

[2] "arsch": arse.

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	4. Internet Trolls, Tomatoes, and Shouting

**Thanks so much to everyone for their wonderful reviews that have enabled me to get this far knowing I'm doing stuff right :D Sorry for the wait, but here's the fourth chapter-where the plot actually starts moving in the direction it's been fated to go from the start. I hope this makes up for the wait and is as good as its predeccessors. Something tells me I'm losing my touch, but maybe I'm just paranoid...**

**Oh well-enjoy! And I hope to update much sooner!**

* * *

><p>Chapter 4: Internet Trolls, Tomatoes, and A Lot of Shouting<p>

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I'd made a MSN account. Oh my God, I had just made an MSN account. I had just committed one of the Ten Evils of the world which I had one day scribbled down in a Tango-fuelled fury. It was a repulsive notion; communicating through a machine. To me, that was the most awkward and cold type of socialization known to man, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Until now, that is. This was just a taster of the depths I was willing to sink to in order to attain rational and stable relationships with others. Christ, next I'd be auditioning for American Idol...although I'd probably have Mr. Edelstein raving behind me on that one.

I stayed up till 1:30 in the morning chatting to random people I didn't know. Hooray for the anonymous internet! Technology was hereafter my best buddy. Oh God, I sounded exactly like Mr. Yong Soo the I.T teacher...

Wait, didn't I have him first period?

The anonymous person I was last speaking to, who, after a lengthy conversation and a few slip-ups on his part, I found out was in Dr. Yao's form 9C[1], replied the affirmative.

My response:

_THANK YOU LORD! YOU REALLY DO LOVE ME!_

His response:

_Lol XD Amen._

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**Registration: (9:20am)**

Hum. Now I just had to wait till break to meet up with a black-haired guy called Justin, who also happened to be in my I.T class. Somewhere. Amidst the hordes of morons cramming this school up with their imbecilic bodies. Just kidding, I didn't think that about _everybody, _just those who genuinely deserved the label. Like the stupid person who mentioned 'Twilight' in Mr. Kirkland's presence. Like the girl who thought France was a brand of heroin. Mr. Bonnefoy probably would have killed her with a slightly out-of-date croissant if Mr. Kirkland hadn't rugby-tackled him from behind...

I don't like to think what happened after that.

"VHY ISN'T ANYONE STANDING BEHIND ZHEIR DESKS?" a horrifically German accent bellowed without any warning to our tired senses. "GET UP YOU LAZY SVINES! **UP!**"

We were up like corks out of a champagne bottle.

Why were we all sitting at our desks that day instead of standing to attention behind them as we always did, you ask? Because the most boisterous member of our form dared everyone to do it, for the first time in year and a bit, just to see the German's reaction.

And God did we get one.

"EVERYONE OUT! SIX LAPS AROUND ZHE CLASSROOM, ON THE DOUBLE!" he shouted, banging his fist on the table with each word, absolutely incensed, both with the fact that we had dared disobey him and that we'd even thought to do it in the first place. Both were unforgivable.

Protests erupted around the classroom, everyone outraged at this unfair treatment. I kept my mouth shut—after the advice and concern Mr. Beilschmidt had shown me the previous day, I had no right to question what was clearly a fair punishment for our stupidity. I was so ashamed I had even gone along with my classmates to openly defy him despite that. This horrible gut-feeling was made all the more sickeningly-intense by the furious glare of contempt Mr. Beilschmidt now aimed at me, as if to say _'How could you?_'.

I stared numbly down at my feet as we all stood up and filed out, not allowing myself to look at the German's face as I exited the class to run my laps with the rest of the class in the cool autumn morning air.

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.

.

We registered in absolute silence. Mr. Beilschmidt had already gotten a clear idea of who was and who wasn't in through the amount of times we all passed his window.

Everyone was now kicking themselves for being so butt-numbingly stupid. I was too, but even more so because I had betrayed the kindness of the man who had gone out of his way to care about my happiness, along with all the others in the past few days. All the others I had failed to thank. I squirmed in disgust at myself. What was wrong with me? Why was I such a selfish sod? Would it have killed me to go up to Dr. Yao, Mr G, Mr. Jones, and Mr. Braginski, and tell them "Gee, thanks sir, for supporting me in my rough moments despite getting fuck-all for your trouble!" Would it have killed me to disrupt the universal desires of my peers and show my awesome form tutor I willing to defy their company to convey my appreciation? Apparently!

But it was by doing exactly that that I had alienated myself from said peers, and so doing such a thing now, where the opposite was the only remedy for re-integrating myself with everyone, was unthinkable at the time before the German entered the room. Now it was clear that going along with everyone in an attempt to acquire a sense of belonging, and perhaps friendship, was a no-win situation as well.

What was I supposed to do?

As I hurriedly exited the classroom towards the main building and the I.T corridor (no block for _that _department), I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I didn't even need to turn round to recognise to whom it belonged, but I did so anyway, because no eye contact would be screaming cowardice.

"Zo," the German muttered. "This is the lengths you are villing to go to find a friend, is it?"

His expression was grim with disappointment, as if he had never once considered I would ever do such a thing. What, with all the teachers always complimenting my quiet obedience every teacher-student consultation evening, I supposed the German was justified to think so (or not, in this case).

I nodded miserably. Lying would be suicide (by way of ceaseless lap-running closely followed by an angry German man with a whip).

Mr. Beilschmidt sighed heavily.

"Amber, it is all very vell allowing yourself to mix with ozhers, but the only vay you can succeed in attaining friendship as well as securing your ovn happiness is to do so only in circumstances that _will not lead to you getting into trouble or doing zhings you know are vrong_." The German stressed the last part of advice, with extra-firm emphasis on 'will not', 'trouble' and 'wrong'.

I nodded again. He was right. I had been so stupid.

"Yes sir," I murmured. "I'm sorry. Really sorry. I just thought...Well, to be honest, I wasn't thinking at all," I confessed with an awkward smile. God, I wanted to get out of this situation so badly...for its sheer pressure rather than avoidance of responsibility. My perceptive form tutor seemed to sense this.

"Zo long as you understand," Mr. Beilschmidt said seriously, softening a little and removing his hand from my shoulder. "Now, get to your lesson. Mr. Yong Soo is probably raving about how he invented all technology and should be worshipped as the Tech King and have an IPod sacrificed to him every Tuezday! Qwick!"

He clapped his hands at the last instruction, and I smiled and apologized again before rushing away to the I.T corridor.

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.

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**First Period: I.T (10:00 am)...like you weren't aware of that already.**

Oh, Mr. Yong Soo was raving alright. Jumping up and down in his obligatory kimono, which he wore just to prove he was older than both Dr. Yao and Mr. Honda, despite being visibly years younger, he was a hilarious sight. Anyone could tell that he'd bought that thing in some over-priced Asian market last weekend. The label was still dangling out to prove it. And no, sir, wrinkle make-up _did not _do you any favours. In fact, it was rather pathetic, watching him proclaim dramatically about the 'cheek' of the two 'youngsters' who dared treat him like the twenty-year-old HE REALLY WAS.

The classroom itself may as well have once been a small cupboard that had been given a very long extension. Impossibly thin in width and not all that lengthy, we all sat at our computers literally back-to-back so that no-one could move an inch once they were sat down [2]. It took fifteen minutes for us all to actually get seated in the first place—having to climb over each-other, the wires, fans, torches, foul-mouthed Furbies, and a host of other random electrical appliances neither used nor needed by Mr. Yong Soo or any of his students, littered around the 'room'. They made the trek to our bunched-up seats all the more like an episode of _Survivor._

The oblivious I.T teacher (Korean, and never letting anyone forget it) treated every lesson like a day in heaven, and was consequently ecstatic throughout each one, bounding around and vaulting over people's chairs long-jump style to get to other people who needed help.

But he didn't actually help them or advise. He just shoved them off their chairs and did the work for them, stabbing the keyboard in a frenzy of exhilaration like he was checking the results of the lottery card he knew he'd won the jackpot with. He also had an unnerving tendency to hover over our shoulders, balancing on the thin space on the tops of our permanently-glued-together seats, gazing psychopathically at our screens with wide black eyes so that he scarily resembled the little boy from _The Grudge._

In summation: Mr. Yong Soo was way too enthusiastic about his subject, to the point where we didn't actually learn anything. We just did random shit; whatever came to the Korean's head first. Whether it was to design your own internet meme, troll your neighbours, or creating a PowerPoint presentation on the meaning of Rick-Rolling, none of it made us any more aware of how our computers actually worked or what to do if they randomly died on us (which they often did, due to Mr. Yong Soo's shameless surfing of inappropriate websites supposedly suggested to him by an equally perverted member of staff. Everyone was divided on who they believed to be the culprit).

In other news, he also had a strange obsession with glomping—particularly Dr. Yao, and particularly from behind like an over-eager, techno rapist. No wonder that the Chinese man practically ran past the classroom, if he ever did emerge from his lab, to avoid his creepy young stalker.

Today, the Asian man was ranting about how amazing his new topic was and how everyone was going to flip out and spew kitty memes all over the room when he told us what it was.

I wished it didn't take him so long to get to the point. God, we all could've re-written the dictionary _in Korean _by the time he'd finished going on...and on.

"Sooooo," he finally concluded. "This term we're gonna do somethin' that'll really test your brain cells! We'll all set up our own internet chat-rooms!"

Oh yes. My brain cells felt tested already.

Imagination sped into overdrive as I envisioned the possibilities this could open up to me in terms of socialising. Only a small handful of people from my school used MSN, and now that far more people would be persuaded/forced to use this one collectively, I could open myself up to their virtual company without reservations.

Thank you, Mr. Yong Soo and your obsessive, borderline-sexual love for technology! And for spawning the line: "Yong Soo screws his own hard drive."

We created our individual chatrooms very quickly, thanks to Mr. Yong Soo inadvertently getting bored waiting and doing all our work for us. We each had to name our chatroom. Mine was: "Try Me. You Might Be Surprised."

My username: _BookOtakuAmber_

Original, I know. On the spur of the moment, my mind was literally wandering to the land of unicorns and flying mint bunnies. Goddamn Mr. Kirkland and his drunken hallucinations...

Well, at least everybody would know instantly it was me. This could go both ways.

I logged on, not expecting anything but a blank screen through the entire lesson, but hopeful nonetheless.

Another username popped up.

_JustinHarris98_

HAAA-LLELUJAH! HAAA-LLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLEEELUJAH!

That was the choir singing in my head. I shut it up to respond.

_Omg this is so cool!_

I sounded like a child, but it seemed to work for my peers. Why not me, then?

Then Mr. Beilschmidt's words sounded in my head: _"Just be yourselv."_

Crap. He was right. What was I doing, trying to pretend to be something I wasn't? And I wanted people to like me for who I was! Not going about it very convincingly, I admitted.

Thankfully, Justin replied positively. Hooray for understanding men!

_Lol, IKR? XD God, Mr. Y S is such a ditz!_

I snorted under my breath. No words were truer.

_Yeah. Good for us though. He gives us good grades for having fun, and we have great fun. We win!_

Justin laughed from the other end of the room. I started, and looked over at his messy head of black hair. I had almost completely forgotten my surroundings in favour of the glaring screen in front of me. Christ, what was I doing? It was silent aside from the furious movement of fingers on keys and occasional retarded giggle.

Another username suddenly popped up.

_BigBroYongSoo-TechMaster!_

OH MY GOD.

_Hai Amber! Hai Justin! _the happy Asian greeted.

I snapped my head round to where our Korean teacher sat, naturally at his computer. What the hell? He was getting in on this too? Fine, that wasn't so surprising...But on _mychatroom? The man was insane..._

But, by that logic, Justin would be just as nuts.

Then I smirked deviously

_Yes **what**, sir? _I questioned, smirking like an idiot. It had occurred to me that Mr. Yong Soo had effectively said 'Yes Amber! Yes Justin!' by reference to Mr. Honda's Japanese tongue.

Justin Harris snickered from his desk.

_Don't mock ur teacher! I have Furbies! _came the would-be-but-not threatening response from my very-childish I.T teacher, who made a point of glaring angrily at me from behind his computer screen. Apparently Furbies were lethal weapons to be reckoned with in the Korean's eyes. I had no way, nor any inclination, of finding out.

After that I was at a loss. What the hell do you say to a teacher in such an informal situation like this? I typed:

_Umm ok...Nice weather we're having, isn't it?_

God. It'd come to this, had it? Already?

Justin pitched in. My saviour with messy black hair and glasses...

_Hi sir. Btw, is it true you slept with your comp. hard drive?_

I gaped. Jesus, he was pushing it! Mr. Yong Soo could be just as terrifying as Dr. Yao when angered, and just as destructive. And in a cramped corridor of computers and other electrical devices...pissing off the strangely-tall Asian man was a recipe for disaster.

The response was livid.

_THATS A LIE! A LIE, I TELL YOU! I'M NOT A SEXUAL FUCKWIT LIKE MR. BONNEFOY! LIESSSS!_

We just burst out snickering.

_But you stalk Dr. YaoJustin observed cheekily._

Hammering of keys from Mr. Yong Soo's direction.

_IT'S NOT **STALKING**, IT'S **OBSERVATION! **_was the furious and totally-not-defensive reply.

We collapsed giggling. Way to be in denial and be piss-yourself funny at the same time!

Suddenly, two messages flashed up on the chat.

.

.

_JustinHarris98 **has been kicked out!**_

_BigBroYongSoo-TechMaster! **has been kicked out!**_

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.

I blinked, astonished. Simultaneous 'Hey!'s came from both Justin and Mr. Yong Soo. They seemed to be frantically trying to rejoin the chat, but unable. Who'd done this?

Another username flashed up.

_Anonymous_

I paled. What the...

No one was allowed to sign on under 'anonymous'. Mr. Yong Soo had made sure of that…

_Hello, Amber,_ came the cold greeting.

I swallowed and hesitantly began to type.

_What do you want? Go troll someone else's chat._

A useless order, but at least I tried to be civil.

_Ha. No chance of that, _the other mocked._ _I have some things to say.__

_Oh, thank you, I couldn't go another minute without listening to crap! _I shot back as sarcastically as possible. It was easier to convey sarcasm than to detect it on a chatroom, I found.

_Don't fuck with me, Farrow, _Anonymous responded with shocking viciousness._ _I've seen you get all cuddly with Mr. Sauer Kraut lately. And Dr. Asian Fuck. And Mr. Commie Braginski, asshole Brit Kirkland, the albino Nazi, and even dipshit Mr. Fucking Jones!__

A second of pause.

_So, how does it feel to have grown men all over you, huh?_

The hairs on the back of my neck went cold, and all the blood rushed to my head as rage flared. How dare this bastard speak that way about my awesome teachers? The people who helped me! And to suggest they even dared to engage in sexual relations with me was just sick.

But...how did this guy know I'd been interacting with them specifically over recent days? No one had been around when Dr. Yao hugged and consoled me in private. Nor had there been anyone around when Mr. Beilschmidt took me aside to advise/assure me, and I was pretty certain she had not been around when I had approached Mr. Jones either. Whoever this was could not have been in my class when Mr. Braginski offered his time to talk, and Mr. G when he unexpectedly included me into his one-way class discussion, and when Mr. Kirkland and my form tutor raised my morale at my lowest point...

I clenched my fists to stop them trembling. What the hell? What the hell was this?

_How dare you suggest such a disgusting thing! You know damn well none of those teachers have done anything like that, you crazy bastard! How dare you say that about them! You don't have the right to kiss the dirt they walk on! How the fuck do you know I talked to all of them anyway? _I raged, smashing the keys furiously.

A pause.

_As if I'm going tell you that! Whatever, they're still a bunch of morons, though not as much as you! None of you know anything that's going on. Anything._

I stared in disbelief, rattled by the vague last words. I grit my teeth. No. This was some kind of lame trap. I was not gonna fall for it.

_You're full of crap, and I'm not buying it, asshole._

_We'll see who's full of crap when we stuff you with your insides._

I gaped. Oh my...God...!

_You're insane,_ I typed, disgusted_. _I'm surprised your parents haven't had you bloody exorcised!__

_Ha ha, they had. But failed. Horribly. But that's the least of your problems now. You've been looking a lot happier recently, I see. It won't last. Promise you._

Before I could respond, the mysterious stalker signed off.

I shuddered and prayed lesson would finish soon. Justin Harris stared questioningly at me, but when he asked about it as we left the classroom, I refused to say a word about what had happened.

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**Second Period: Geography (10:40am)**

My head was reeling with wild thoughts and dreadful scenarios that the chilling 'net conversation with the crazy hacker guy whipped up. It must have been a hacker—that was the only logical explanation for how someone could butt out two users from a chat, bar them from re-joining, and sign himself on under an unauthorised username. Sitting in the far corner of Mr. Braginski's class, I remained in a complete daze while the cheerful Russian rambled on about the movement of land masses, how they were in fact all being pulled towards Russia to be one day fused with it, and so on and so on.

What did he (assuming this person was a guy) want from me? Or, more worrying, what would he do? I imaged this nutcase had a whole load of equally vicious friends who would happily assist him in whatever painful games he wanted to play with me.

God, what the hell? What brought this on? Why me? Why...

"Class dismissed! Great work everybody, I hope you all work just as hard next lesson!" chirruped the cheerful Russian accent of the large Geography teacher, seemingly completely oblivious to the fact that I had not moved an inch the entire lesson, nor wrote a single letter in my work-book, and had been instead staring mindlessly out of the window while engulfed in my own thoughts of worst-case-scenarios.

I looked up suddenly to see two wide violet eyes right in my face, lips spread in a huge oily smile.

I lurched back. "Jesus Christ, sir!" I spluttered. "What the hell? I was in deep thought!" Staring incredulously at the happy Russian man, scarf and all, crouched in front of me with his hands holding on to the edge of the desk to stop his considerable bulk from falling backwards (which would only succeed in pulling both me and the desk with him if such occurred), I asked, "How long have you been there?"

"About five minutes, da!" came the cheerful reply.

That made everything better, didn't it? My own teacher had been squatting at my desk staring at me for five minutes straight. Wonderful. Another stalker.

"You look troubled, da," he observed, smile fading. "Would you mind sharing your thoughts with me?"

Mr. Braginski's words reminded me of his offer the previous day; that I could talk to him about my worries whenever I wanted. I felt guilty. I'd rudely rejected his offer, but he was still willing to lend a sympathetic ear.

I looked down at my lap.

"Sorry I was such an asshole yesterday," I apologised.

The Russian blinked, so childishly oblivious it seemed he didn't recall what I was referring to. I had an urge to hit him with my pencil case. Maybe that would jog his apparently five-second span of memory.

"Oh, that! Do not worry—that wouldn't have stopped me!" he stated cheerfully. I didn't know whether to be grateful or creeped out by this response.

"So," Mr. Braginski resumed, a rare serious expression falling into place, "What has been troubling you?"

So I told him. I began by relating my issues with friendship and recent confrontations with Clarisse and her lapdogs, but then assuring a very empathic Mr. Braginski that this was in the process of being resolved thanks to a number of significant others, including my form tutor.

_"Lucky bitch..."_the Russian muttered darkly under his breath, an aura of suppressed malice blazing around his person.

"WHAT?" I spluttered.

"Oh nothing, carry on!" Mr. Braginski chirruped, aura poofing out of existence, and smiling as if he hadn't just looked like a demon from hell.

Then I got to business, talking about the disturbing 'chat' with the unknown internet user who had hijacked the chat room and seemed to know my recent actions and the teachers I had spoke to, and even my recent moods.

When I'd finished, Mr. Braginski thought for a few moments, thick eyebrows furrowed, clearly troubled by my news.

"...Hmm," he muttered, fiddling with his scarf as he always did when agitated. "That isn't good."

I stared at him with an expression that said: "YA DON'T SAY! DUUUUH."

"Judging by what you have told me," the concerned Russian said, ignoring my look, "this person may very well attend school here, or at least know people who do, and is employing them as spies. It could be that he or she simply bugged the rooms—judging by how he/she effortlessly hacked into your chat room under a prohibited username and managed to keep out two people, one of them being a professional and skilled I.T teacher, this person seems to be very knowledgeable with technology. He or she could be working alone or as a group. Whatever is true, he or she, or they, mean harm to you and possibly the members of staff you interacted with recently. I will alert the Headmaster about this, don't you worry."

I noted during the course of Mr. Braginski's speech that he'd said "_simply _bugged the rooms", as if it was something as easily accomplished as pissing of Mr. McDick the caretaker. Also, Mr. Braginski was far more insightful than people gave him credit for.

Now though, I had far more serious problems to worry about.

"What...but why?" I cried. "Why me? Why now? How could this person go so damn far to hurt me?"

Mr. Braginski sighed.

"Your guess is as good as mine, I'm afraid," he admitted apologetically, standing up and moving towards his desk with his broad back to me.

I would have asked more questions, but the guarded posture of the man before me barred any such action, its owner deep in his own unfathomable thoughts.

Excusing myself, I exited the room, my mind I whirlwind of anxiety and terror.

"Amber!" Mr. Braginski called after me.

I turned round, pale and shivering a little.

"Do not go out in the dark," he warned, violet eyes profound in their seriousness. "Bad things hide there."

I stared, and ran.

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**Break (11:00am)**

I made my way to Dr. Yao's lab. I needed his crazy Asian wisdom right now, along with an opportunity to thank him for his help.

Peeking around the door of the classroom, I was met with an almighty explosion of gold powder that instantly engulfed the room. I covered my face with my bag (dignity be screwed) and waited until the dust settled.

Rushing inside to see the entire room covered in this sparkly gold stuff, I looked around for my science teacher.

I found him.

Dr. Yao was lying dazed and coughing on the floor behind his desk. I hurried over and helped the shaken Chinese man to stand.

"H-Hǔpò..." he stammered, looking up at me. "Xie xie...[3]"

"No problem, just repaying you for being so nice to me," I dismissed, smiling. The Chinese dusted himself off (being careful not to get me covered as well), and chuckled.

"My student was upset. As a teacher, and a man, I wanted to dispel your sorrow, aru," he confessed with heartfelt sincerity, echoing Mr. Beilschmidt's words. He ruffled my hair despite not being much taller than me.

I smiled, the lump in my throat forbidding me from saying anything lest emotion should slip out.

"U—uh-huh...Well...what were you doing here, sir?" I asked awkwardly, looking at the smashed flask and other apparatuses scattered on Dr. Yao's desk.

He pouted angrily.

"I was just administering this chemical into that flask to make a medicinal formula—and then it blew up in my face, aru! How that could have happened I do not know, I checked the mixture thoroughly, and it was flawless every time, aru!"

Suddenly, the cold typed words of the anonymous hacker came to the forefront of my mind and coiled around it like cutting steel.

_'You've been looking a lot happier recently, I see. It won't last. Promise you.'_

Dr. Yao never, ever failed an experiment like this so dangerously. And he had checked it many times before trying it out...But...

"Sir," I spoke up, swallowing. "Did you leave the room for a time before you tested the formula?"

The young Chinese looked at me curiously.

"Yes, I did. For a while, actually, because that stupid Yong Soo tried to sexually violate my non-existent breasts in the I.T corridor again, and I—"

I ran out of the room before Dr. Yao finished his angry complaint, white as a sheet and terrified. Someone must've sneaked in and messed up the formula to _make _the stuff explode! Someone wanted to harm him...and the Chinese man was one of the teachers the crazy hacker knew I'd been friendly with...

_'You've been looking a lot happier recently, I see. It won't last. Promise you.'_

I grit my teeth and forced myself to ignore Dr. Yao's cries for me to come back.

Doing so would only bring more harm. My teachers were in danger because of me. I had originally gone there to seek advice, but now it was impossible to approach the ones I felt most comfortable with.

_It won't last. Promise you.'_

I stopped dead when a horrible realisation smacked me hard, and I frantically dove into my bag and snatched out my lesson timetable sheet, and stared at the next lessons.

**3rd Period: Drama—Mr. Gilbert Beilschmidt.**

**4th Period: P.E—Mr. F. Jones.**

I stood staring at this dreadful omen, slowly drowning in cold, seeping dread.

_'It won't last. Promise you.'_

_'Promise you.'_

_'Promise you.'_

_'Promise you...'_

.

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**Third Period: Drama (11.40am)**

Mr. G was late for the lesson, and I sat waiting in terror. What if something had happened? What if that crazy bastard did something to him too, and I was just sitting here unable to do anything about it?

I'd never been so utterly relieved to see that albino hooligan bursting through the doors and hollering at the top of his lungs: "HELL YEAH, THE AWESOME ME IS BAAAACK! HALLOOOOO DALLAS!"

I still don't know what the Prussian was talking about, or where he got that phrase from, but it made us crack up anyway.

"SORRY I'M LATE, I WAS BEATING ZHE SHIT OUT OF PUSSY SNOTTY-PIANO BRITCHES! HIS HEAD LOOKS GUT SHOVED THROUGH A DRUM!"

The rest of the lesson was just as hilarious. Following on with our topic of 'Expressions and Emotion', Mr. G performed for all of us the entire lesson, displaying his range of emotions: "Hideously smug", "rampant" and "hideously smug". Each expression had a different monologue, one about how amazingly awesome he was, and the other how amazingly sexually-charged he was, and the things he would do while in said state.

And we thought his arch-nemesis Ms. Héderváry's porn was mind-fuckery incarnate...

As the lesson ended and everyone filed out, some going straight to the toilets to change their pants (sensible people brought an extra pair to Mr. G's lessons). Once again, I was pulled aside to face the fierce red embers of the drama teacher's eyes.

"I lied about the vhole 'beating up pussy-pants Edelstein' zhing. Zhat'll happen one day zhough... zo keep that in mind. Anyvay, I was really in a staff meeting about what you told the Vodka Maniac earlier." A grin stretched across the young Prussian's face. "Do not vorry, everyzhing will be fine. Old Man Rome will kick his zorry ass to China UND BACK!"

To illustrate his point, the albino man swung his leg around and kicked what he thought would be a light object but was actually the wall behind him. On impact the man's whole body went rigid. Turning around, a huge grin forced on his twitching, deathly-pale features, Mr. G tried to pretend he wasn't in bone-crushing agony.

"Ha...ha...V-vell...you can...go to lesson now..." he managed through clenched teeth.

I stared at him, and noticed he was trembling.

"Uh, sir...you might want to go to the nurses' office," I said, looking at his throbbing left leg.

"No no, I'm fine..." squeaked Mr. G, unremitting in his fight to uphold what little dignity he still possessed.

"Yessir...'

I paused.

'Be careful, sir," I beseeched with a meaningful look, more than enough worry in my voice for the man to take me seriously...I hoped.

Mr. G nodded a little too jerkily.

"Ja, ja...v-vill do..." he dismissed, grinning wider. His whole body was trembling.

I figured my thanks could wait—this man was dying to explode. I left the room in a hurry, and just in time before an almighty yell of pain rang out from the Drama room, followed by a barrage of shouting and swearing unlike anything witnessed before in German history:

_"HIIIYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Ach Goooooooooott! Ach fickt fickt fickt es verleeeeeetzt! Warum Gott! Waruuuuuuuuum? Aaaaaahhhhhh Scheiße! Scheiße scheiße scheiße scheiße!_"[4]

I laughed all the way to the P.E block.

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**Fourth Period: P.E (12.20pm)**

I was still giggling like a maniac as I changed into my running gear and trainers, with the others girls looking at me as if I'd dropped off the deep end but nobody had noticed till now just how goddamn deep the end was. I might as well have morphed into a harmless, female but still batshit insane Joker.

I was just so happy (not just because Mr. G was the funniest thing since the 'Grab My—' meme). The uber-powerful Headmaster Rome was going to sort everything out! The teachers knew everything, and they'd be more careful, and far less likely to run into danger and get hurt!

As if attracted by the smell of insanity like a sniffer-dog to drugs, Mr. Jones rampaged in looking as if he'd run the marathon and couldn't wait to go through the whole damned thing again—without the aid of steroids.

"Hi guys!" he shouted cheerfully. The American never talked during lessons, and hardly ever outside them. Only shouted. Like a storm-trooper who'd won the lottery a hundred times over and had no shame in telling everybody about it. "Let's do BASEBAAAAALL!"

It wasn't a suggestion or open for opinion—we were doing it and that was that. In his own way, Mr. Jones was just as frighteningly single-minded as Mr. Beilschmidt...except happier and less likely to kill you in a fit of uncontrollable wurst-related rage. He was far more easy-going too, although he'd yell if he thought you weren't putting enough all-American gusto into it. He didn't just teach, either—he actually got involved with the activities we did, and cheered us all on every step of the way. In this Mr. Jones was awesome, because he always made you think you could do anything, even if you were shit. Totally opposite to Mr. Kirkland, who made you grateful you did anything right at all.

The man also couldn't understand that some people just weren't good at sports.

I was one of those people.

Standing on the spacious fields spread out around the back of the complex, I swung my bat around like Mr. Kirkland trying to fend off his rabid French stalker to hit the balls that came at me from every possible direction (yes, even downwards, because some arsehole had modified a rifle into a ball-shooter and had camped out on the nearby roof of Mr. McDick's shed before the lesson began) because Mr. Jones screwed the rules. He refused to let anybody leave until I'd darn well hit one of them.

It took half an hour after the lesson had finished for that miracle to grace us all.

After that I decided my 'thank you' could wait for a while.

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**Lunch (13:50pm). Thanks, Mr. Jones. Thanks a bunch.**

Spent the last half an hour of lunch running from an enraged Italian chef, from whom I had stolen a fruit salad because I had no money to buy my own lunch (damn me and my sieve of a mind...). When an Italian maniac wielding a spatula and soup-ladle is chasing you with all intent to kill and swearing furiously like Mr. Kirkland when the word _Twilightreaches his ears, you've gotta bloody run –or else find someone as a good, impenetrable shield to save you from imminent death._

"GET BACK HERE YOU FUCKING BOOK-FREAK GIRLY THIEF!" he roared. Clearly Chef Romano was far better at insulting those of his own sex. Go figure.

"I _AMA GIRL YA TWAT!" I yelled back, turning a corner._

_Fwump! _I collided with something firm and reeking of alcohol.

"WHAT THE FECK I'GOIN' ON 'ERE?"

Shit.

Mr. McDick in all his dickish glory, red as a tomato (lol, irony), and glowering down at me with hate and venom blazing in his forest-green eyes. For the first time in days, the man actually seemed half-sober. His trusty mop (dripping with unmentionable shit) was in his hand at the ready.

God damn you, Ireland, for spawning this...this...

"And what the feck're YOU doin' ''ere yeh squinty-eyed poof?" the caretaker shouted, but not at me—at Chef Romano, who was now murderously angry.

"'POOF'?" the Italian bellowed, sizing the other man up (a pointless task since the Irishman was about a head taller than he was). "WHERE THE HELL'D YOU GET THAT FROM YOU CRAZY LEPRECHAUN-SUCKING BASTARD?"

"'T 'NET!" came the raging reply. "PICTURES'EH YOU FECKIN' YER OWN FLESH'N'BLOOD!"

Chef Romano was aghast, and I actually felt sorry for him. I couldn't imagine that the man would ever so much as hug his brother, let alone 'feck' him. Chef Romano was a lot of things, but Mr. Braginski's crazy sister turned-male he was not. A certain Korean tech-wiz knew no bounds...

"THE INTERNET LIES!" the Italian chef shouted with every defensive pore in his body (amounting to just one, because the rest were raging hooligans).

"THA'S WHAT THEY ALL SAY!" retorted the Irishman smugly.

"'THEY' BEING YOU AND YOUR DOG MCFINNIGAN!"

This went on back and forth like this long after school had ended, the event being thenceforth known as 'Battle of The Angry Shites'. Nobody had the balls to get in there and stop the two tourettes suffers from going at it like rabbi—I mean, crazy people!

Yeah...

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**Fifth Period: Agricultural Science (14:20pm)**

"_Hola a todos!_" echoed a cheerful Spanish accent from somewhere in the dense fields of tomato plants (what kind of fertiliser he used to make tomatoes grow in autumn was one of life's never asked questions), radish, turnips, carrots and lettuce—the sheer size of which made Holland's vast tulip fields look puny.

It took us half the damn lesson to find the happy Spaniard in his oversized straw hat and pruning tools, blissfully inspecting the gleaming red fruit. Rumour had it he frolicked through them like a little girl when no one was around.

Creepy bastard...

But Mr. Carriedo really was nice. Too nice, some would say, like Mr. Feliciano, but also somehow able to keep us all in line. Maybe it was his constant state of sunshine-happiness in all kinds of weather and in all circumstances. Well, except for the one where his tomato plants caught a disease and died one winter...the Spaniard refused to come out of his room until his assistant, the lovely but clumsy Miss Iryna (Mr. Braginski's older sister), had finally managed to magically restore them (in other words, growing new ones from scratch without the emo Spaniard's knowledge).

This took the young woman two years. And only with the help of her agriculturally-inclined siblings and other members of staff. Its slow completion was due to dire mistakes on Miss Iryna's part, the weather, and temper tantrums of mass destruction on the part of Chef Romano, Dr. Yao and others on the realization they weren't getting paid for their toils.

Now the happy-go-lucky Spaniard was back, and brighter than ever, jumping around in all his lively tanned sexiness. I'm surprised my female classmates didn't pass out from blood loss via nose-bleeds. I admired the young man's looks, but didn't sink to their retarded level of awe/borderline-obsession. He also provided a service of selling his produce, as well as allowing us to take our own home with us.

Because of the Mr. Carriedo's natural enthusiasm for his subject, it naturally boosted our own emotional state and willingness to work. No one could be depressed in the man's lessons—his aura of cheer was contagious.

That was probably the reason why I was whistling to myself as I tended the steadily growing crops in our individual allotments of earth that we had created last year. I was pleased to see that my turnips, radish, carrots, lettuce and tomato plants were coming on nicely. There's nothing like the feeling of seeing the work of your own hands growing strong before your eyes. A great sense of pride comes over you, and you look briefly around at others for approval, with a look that says:_"Yeeah, I did this. I made all this happen. Yeah, suck on that. Suck it like a leek! Kolkolkolkolkol...!"_

Or maybe that was just me being smug.

I made a mental note to not speak more than a sentence to Mr. Braginski for another year, to stop the influence of his mannerisms spreading...

"Your plot is looking very good, Amber!" an exotic accent remarked in my ear. I jerked and stared at the smiling Spanish man standing inches away from my face. Apparently no teacher in this school by Mr. Beilschmidt knew the meaning of 'personal space and ways to violate it'.

"Uh...thank you, sir," I mumbled, flushing at this display of close attention. I hoped nobody was looking.

"So, what're their names?" Mr. Carriedo asked pleasantly, as if it was a perfectly normal question.

I blinked, not understanding.

"...What?"

"Your vegetables—what are their names?" my Ag. Science teacher repeated, smiling wider.

I didn't know what to think aside from: 'HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST YOUR MIND TO THE HEINZ COMPANY[5]?'

"You're kidding right?"

"No!" the Spaniard chirruped. "I name each and every one of my crops and vegetables!" The man dreamily stroked the leaves of one tomato near his head. "I call this one Maria!"

I suddenly had the urge to hit the crazy Nature Hippie round the head with my hoe, drag him to the Nut House and tell the people there to do something about this tomato-loving maniac.

But he wouldn't let the matter drop. He insisted I name my plants. So I did.

The carrots names were: Ginger, Orange, Mr. McDick (as a reference to the Irishman's hair), Mr. McDick's Dog McFinnigan (who was the same colour), Pointy and Strangely Yellow.

Lettuces named 'Brussel Sprout Rip-Offs 1, 2, 3 and 4.'

Turnips all called: 'Mr. G's Bastard Offspring'. I don't know why, it just seemed funny at the time.

Radishes named 'Radish Junior 1, 2, 3, and 4' (although I secretly called one 'Mr. Romano's Face', as a reference to it being a constant shade of red, as was the main part of the plant in question).

Tomatoes all named 'Mr Crazy Carriedo Juniors'.

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**End of day: (15:00pm)**

I was done. Thank God. There was only so much craziness I could take in one day...

I thought too soon.

Just as we all made our way through the maze of plants and exotic vegetables of all shapes and sizes, I heard Mr. Carriedo whisper lovingly to yet another one of his tomatoes:

_"Oh Maria...no one can know of our forbidden love..."_

I ran for my life and practically flung myself into the bus home, shouting "GET ME AWAY FROM THIS DAMNED PLACE! IT'S A MADHOUSE! A MAAAADHOUSE![6]"

I got a free bus ride that day.

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TO BE CONTINUED!

* * *

><p><span>TRANSLATION NOTES:<span>

[1] Dr. Yao's form 9C:_ 'C' referring to 'China' XD_

[2] we all sat at our computers literally back-to-back so that no-one could move an inch once they were sat down:_ This was what my primary school I.T 'room' was really like. It really was that ridiculously long and cramped XD_

[3] 'Xie xie...'_: 'Thank you' in Chinese._

[4] _"_Ach Goooooooooott! Ach fickt fickt fickt es verleeeeeetzt! Warum Gott! Waruuuuuuuuum? Aaaaaahhhhhh Scheiße! Scheiße scheiße scheiße scheiße!": _'Oh God! Oh fuck fuck fuck it huuuuurts! Why God? Whyyyyyyy? Aaaaah shit! Shit shit shit shit!"_

[5] 'HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST YOUR MIND TO THE HEINZ COMPANY[5]?':_ A reference to tomatoes—think Heinz Tomato Ketchup._

[6] "IT'S A MADHOUSE! A MAAAADHOUSE!":_ The famous line of the main character in the 1968 film 'Planet of the Apes'._


	5. Twilight, Cake and Mr G

Chapter Five: Twilight, Cake and Mr G

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Ahh, Friday. Best day of the week. A chance to get away from the general insanity of Europa High and its teachers was more than welcome for the sake of own sanity, but now a more darker factor had arisen. While in school, I constantly worried about the fate of my teachers, despite the fact that the Headmaster knew all about the mysterious hacker and his/her words. Not after what happened to Dr. Yao. The stark and all too real mortality of these individuals I looked up to frightened me more than the realisation that my way of life was being threatened. Because they were intertwined with that new-found happiness that I had been basking in as of this week, and the thought of losing it was almost maddeningly terrifying.

They had become my surrogate family, too. Mum was working abroad in the US and my dad was nigh-constantly engaged in business. I knew they loved me, they told me so often, and were working like hell to provide for me, but...it was still lonely.

So, seeing my teachers go out of their way to spend time with me, talk to me, care about me...filled that somewhat empty space. That, and more, if you were Mr. Braginski—AKA, the clingiest man on the face of the earth.

I had hardly been able to sleep from worrying about the possible things that could happen to my favourite teachers overnight. What if that crazy hacker hunted them down and hurt them...or worse? He probably knew where they lived, what they did at night...

I entered school the next bright sunny morning with heaping trash bags under my eyes and a horrible anxiety gnawing at my insides.

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**Registration: (9:20am)**

A huge wave of relief flowed through me as Mr. Beilschmidt marched through the door of our form room. I shouldn't have been surprised; if that nutter would have tried anything on the German, he probably would have ended up being throttled by a chain of wurst.

Then I noticed that he was wearing his military-style training outfit...And that only meant one thing...

"EVERYONE! TO THE FIELD FOR YOUR ANNUAL SPORTS DAY ACTIVITIES! NOW!" he shouted, wielding his registration clipboard as if to clout us with it, pen stuck pointlessly behind his ear.

...Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I'd been so wrapped up in my own little world of splendid isolation, as Mr. Kirkland would put it, that I had completely failed to register the up-and-coming Sports Day. Damn. Curse my emotional fuckwittage. I was the only one in the class without my kit and money. Two Euros—a rip-off some said, and anyone who couldn't get their hands on some were royally fucked, especially when the canteen food was sold in the same currency. Actually, checking my bag, I had the money. Phew. Well, that covered for something, at least.

I gingerly raised my hand. Might as well get it over with.

"Uh, sir..." I mumbled.

Mr. Beilschmidt regarded me with his usual stern expression and piercing eyes.

"Ja, Amber?"

I grinned cheesily.

"I, uh...kinda...forgot my kit..."

The German stared for a few moments before sighing deeply in resignation, as if he'd expected it.

"I have the money, though," I added, in an attempt to lessen the punishment.

"I see..." he muttered, taking the payment from me, "vell...since zhere are no lessons for you today, vhy don't you go and help Mr. Kirkland in the library? Zhe man is up to his eyeballs in books that need to be sorted. Qvick!"

Wow. I'd expected a detention. But then, this was Mr. Beilschmidt, probably the most practical man on the planet. Forced labour was a far more productive punishment than sitting idly in a small room writing lines like 'I will not buy porn from Mr. Bonnefoy' or 'I will not throw eggs at Mr. Williams and pretend he's not there'.

I left the classroom, mentally kicking myself and trying to avoid eye contact with the boys sniggering at the back. I smiled as I heard Mr. Beilschmidt exploding like a German Mount St. Helens right in their faces.

Served them bloody right.

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**First Period: Helping Mr. Kirkland in Library/My Safe Haven of Sunshine and Unicorns (10:00 am).**

It was comfortingly quiet in the library. I'd been afraid that a class would be in there or it'd be off-limits for a staff meeting or something. Quiet was what I needed.

The library was one of the oldest parts of the school, retaining its original appearance and charm while the rest of the school was refurbished and extended around its interior through the hundreds of years Europa High had stood. Thus, it still felt like wandering into an unexplored fragment of the past, a chamber of secrets filled with volume upon volume of books stacked in towering wooden shelves, the air tinged with the smell of aging paper, dust, and Earl Grey tea.

It was a huge place, with nooks and crannies waiting to be filled and used as hiding places to have a quick snack or a chat unnoticed even by its master, the all-too-British grump that was Mr. Kirkland. The floor was carpeted a forest-green colour and even possessed underground heating, so it was paradise for those wanting to escape the cold in the freezing winter months. Comfortable sofas, tables and chairs were situated around the room in the only space that wasn't taken up by shelves that just scraped the ceiling: the far right corner.

I stood at the doors of this awesome domain of solitude and breathed in the oaky smell, feeling, as I always did when I entered, at ease.

"What are you doing here, Amber?"

I jolted as the stern questioning voice of Mr. Kirkland broke through the happy thoughts in which I was basking like an over-zealous holidaymaker just asking for sunburn.

I turned around to face that frown and monstrous eyebrows.

"Um...I forgot my kit, so...Mr. Beilschmidt asked me to help you..." I mumbled, awaiting the angry telling-off and insistence he didn't need my bloody help, thank you very much.

The Brit rolled his eyes.

"I see," he said, sighing acceptingly. "Very well then, you can help me stacking the shelves; I've got a pile of new books the size of Mr. Jones's ego needing to be filed away. As you can imagine, it's bloody huge."

Smiling wryly as I grinned, he walked past me and across the room towards the monster shelves ahead. I followed quick-smart, not wanting to be called slow.

Mr Kirkland stopped at the third narrow row, and gestured to the pile of books that stood beside it.

The pile was double the man's height.

My heart sank. This was gonna take a while. But, when I thought about it, I had all the time in the world, so to speak. And I was working in comfortable quiet with a teacher I respected and could, given the new, informal circumstances, speak to casually on topics of interest. Books, naturally, would be the first port of call.

"Right-o," the Brit commenced. "Let's get cracking."

I smiled at this blunt gung-ho attitude, and got to work. I already knew most of the sections of the library and which books went where, and by what order. As with all libraries, the books were sorted by way of topic, be it Geography, Natural History, Maths, and all the countless others, and were put in alphabetical order by the author's last name. Knowing this, it was a relatively easy task. The trouble was getting to the sections in question, especially when a lot of them were situated at the very top of the shelves.

A ladder was required, both to get to the top shelf and the top of the book pile, and I was shitting myself at the thought of climbing to such an insane height. Especially when carrying a big-ass book in one hand.

Christ...

At first Mr. Kirkland did this himself and made me hold the old-fashioned wooden ladder steady while he casually put the books in their rightful place.

But after a while, when we were almost done, he insisted I give it a try at least once.

I gulped.

"Come on now, you have to shake off this fear," he told me firmly. "Up you go!"

Mr. Kirkland held the ladder tightly in one hand and motioned with his eyes for me to ascend. I stood at its foot, staring helplessly up at the looming monster of a shelf and a seemingly endless amount of steps I had to climb.

Taking a bone-crushing grip of the stilts, I put up one foot, and began the slow and shaky climb.

Holding a medium-sized Geography book under my arm, it was hell trying to go up and avoid dropping the book at the same time.

"Sir," I muttered through clenched teeth. "If I fall, I hope this damn book falls right on your head for making me do this."

"Don't be silly, you'll be fine if you concentrate on not falling!" came the curt reply.

Hmph.

A minute or so later, I was nearly there. The initial nerves I had been riddled with were fading as relief and pride took their place.

"There's a lass, good job!" Mr. Kirkland praised from what I heard to be quite a way down.

I grinned and made the final steps right to the top, and filed the book in its place.

Done and dusted.

"There we are! Now come back down!" the Brit called.

"No, sir, I quite like it up here and I think I'll just stay here for the rest of my life!" I retorted playfully. Mr. Kirkland laughed. He LAUGHED! Achievement of the century, right there.

This was more than enough to get me clambering back down far happier and faster than I had gone up.

The Brit patted me awkwardly on the back.

"Good show," he commended in a fatherly tone I'd never heard him use before. "Now, let's take a break. Would you mind a spot of tea and scones?"

"Yes, please, sir," I accepted, smiling, before following him to the room round the back of the large counter. I had never tasted his scones before, and I was confident that people had been exaggerating horribly when they complained how God-awful the things were.

"Sugar?" he asked, not turning round.

"Yes, three please."

_This _made the librarian stop and turn, and Mr. Kirkland stared at me as if I'd called him out on hiring his crazy Irish brother to be the most ineffectual caretaker since the last one—who had died on the job and nobody noticed the difference for a week.

"_Three cubes?" _he exclaimed, aghast. I nodded. "Bloody hell, God speed to your teeth!"

I laughed, and my eye happened to fall upon a small pile of books sitting on Mr. Kirkland's desk, which I recognised as those ready to be placed on the small shelf near the door that housed the most popular reads of the year.

The top book I saw was none other than _'Twilight' _by Stephanie Writing-whore Meyer.

A grimace took over my features.

"Sir," I spoke up as we made to go in to his office. "What's _that _doing here?"

Mr. Kirkland turned round, and as I pointed to the book in question, and mirrored my expression of unbridled disgust.

"Oh, _that _abomination," he muttered, going inside and offering me a side opposite him in the spacious old tea-room. "Funny story, how I came by that."

I took a seat, and he began preparing the tea at the table next to me, pouring, stirring and mixing while talking.

"As you're probably aware, we get our books from the company Books-4-You—the most insulting name for a literature-based firm to have, if I may say so. Then again, I suppose it just reflects the dumbing-down of the population," he remarked sourly, handing me a steaming cup of tea before sitting down with his own.

"I got a phone call from our provider one day, and he told me: 'Hey, we have a really popular book for teenagers in stock, would you be interested in purchasing it?' I answered, 'Very well, what is it?', and then he replied, "'Twilight' by Stephanie Meyer.' Now, as you can imagine, I wasn't having it. 'I bloody will _not _be having that sorry excuse for a book in my library, thank you very much! It's an insult to the trees that died to produce it!' I told him, to which he pleaded, "Oh come on, Mr. Kirkland, the kids need to have this book! It's addicting stuff!". "The kids need that thing to be bloody exorcised, that's what they bloody need!" I replied, and before the twerp could say another word I told him to bother me when he had something that wouldn't destroy what brain cells these kids possess, and slammed the phone down on him!

I was overcome with giggles. I imagined Mr. Kirkland standing over the book clad in a wizard's cloak and enormous spell book in hand, flicking Holy Water onto it shouting: "THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!"[1] over and over again.

"Next day, I get called to the Old Fart's office—don't you go telling the Headmaster I call him that!—and he tells me the vengeful and thoroughly childish provider had called him up to ask him to personally order me to have the Book of Satan in the library. Bloody arse," the Brit muttered savagely as he got up to retrieve his scones from the microwave.

He offered me one on a plate, and I took a bite. God I wish I hadn't. It was the stalest, tasteless, most overdone piece of crap I'd ever unwittingly forced my poor taste-buds to experience.

I didn't tell him this, though. I just grinned extra wide to hide the expression of disgust and the desire to throw up all over Mr. Kirkland's shirt and tie.

"Thank you, sir."

Mr, Kirkland regarded me laxly.

"Oh, don't worry about it. I didn't want to slave-drive you like that bloody Kraut would," he replied, frowning, although I could tell he didn't really mean what he said.

"No, I mean, yes...But also about, y'know...the other day..."

I trailed off. God, one sentence had me completely messed up. I needed to talk to people more.

Mr. Kirkland arched one massive eyebrow, thinking. Then realisation seemed to dawn.

"Oh yes, that...when you were upset and Ludwig and I sorted you out," he recalled. Waving his hand dismissively, he said, "Don't worry about that either—just doing our jobs, really."

I grinned cheekily.

"Aw, sir...just admit it—you care about me!" I teased, leaning forward with my eyebrows raised.

The Brit shifted uncomfortably and became visibly flustered.

"I bloody well do not! No more than the next student, and that isn't saying much!" he insisted hotly, like a child.

I laughed out loud.

"Fine, just don't go blowing your own trumpet about it!" Mr. Kirkland huffed, giving up, folding his arms and flopping back in his armchair. He looked so much like a pouting five-year-old, albeit one with an outrageously pompous accent and eyebrows so huge they looked like he'd stuck two very over-indulgent hamsters above his eyes, I laughed some more. More at the fact that you could have taken that sentence in two ways, one of which not suitable for young ladies like me at the time.

Presently, the librarian looked at his wrist-watch (Rolex, I heard), and nodded.

"Right, since it's second period now, I'd better send you on your next errand: baking cakes with Miss Vogel for this weekend's Autumn Fair."

My eyes lit up. Woo, baking! Everyone loves baking. Except Mr, McDick—he hated everything, but nonetheless...

And I would be doing it with probably the sweetest (and cutest, saying so as a straight person) young woman ever to grace mankind. I'm not joking; wild deer came up to her in the fields and took food from her hands, squirrels attended to her every whim, and birds flew around her head like feathered maids attending to her every whim. Mr. G's flying chick Gilbird (which often followed him to school and hung around the grounds while he was in lessons) stalked quite a few of those...

Miss Vogel was basically a blond, petite version of Snow White. She was also from Liechtenstein, the country no-one, not even the people who live there, can spell correctly on the first try. I know—it took several spell-checks for me to get it right.

"Sir," I asked curiously as we both got up. "Why do we always have a school fair in the winter months not spring?"

Mr. Kirkland frowned.

"Because that's the only time of the year when Mr. Thicky-Wine-Addict-Thicky, also known as the Headmaster, _isn't _conked out on his sofa with a raging Italian hangover," he muttered in reply, going to open the door for me.

I giggled as he held out the door for me.

"Well then," Mr. Kirkland said, with a small smile. "So long. And don't let anybody push you around. You're a good girl."

I smiled in response, speechless. A compliment from Mr. Kirkland was like a dog who speaks—very rare.

I walked out of his office, the library, and into the main corridor towards the playground.

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**Second Period: Baking with Miss Vogel (10:40am)**

Since I had to go all the way round the back of the school to get to the Home Economics classroom, I inevitably passed by the vast playing field on which the Sports Day activities were taking place. Watching them shouting, cheering and having a laugh made me feel like I was missing out. Anyone would rather be in with the gang than alone on the outside looking in. Then I found myself asking—it never bothered me before, at least, not consciously, so why now? What had changed?

I didn't have much time to ponder this, as I was distracted by the shouting going on in the football match that was also made part of the activity list (courtesy of Mr. Jones, who presided over the game for the whole day and insisted it be called 'Soccer').

I sighed. The bullies on the sub benches were starting on a poor sod that clearly wasn't doing as well as the rest. I could hear them chanting: _'Couldn't score in a brothel! Couldn't score in a bro~thel! Ya couldn't score in a brothel!'_—with Mr. Jones on base— __"YA COULDN'T SCORE IN A BROTHEL! YA COULDN'T SCO~RE IN A BROTHEL!"__

The American could be a dick sometimes.

Upon arriving at the door to the Home Eco. classroom, I was greeted by the universally adored smell of baking, sugar, and chocolate.

Oh my God, this was Second Heaven!

I knocked, and a soft, sweet voice allowed me to enter.

Miss. Vogel was busy kneading out the dough for the pastries one on one of the many floury counters situated around the room (a small, dinky place almost as old-fashioned as the library), forming a square; the room rimmed with stoves and cupboards with baking tools, bowls, and ingredients. In the far corner was the enormous fridge donated by Mr. Zwingli, her Swiss adopted brother, who was the Wood Technology teacher who always seemed to be making clocks[2].

She was a relatively new addition to the school, but despite this she had settled right in to life here and was managing her classes with relative ease. Anyone who messed around with her would have the terrifying wrath of Mr. Zwingli to deal with, as well as his famous cuckoo clocks.

Wearing her adorable modest frock under her Hello Kitty apron (Dr. Yao's doing), she was the picture of homely innocence.

She looked up at me with her huge pea-green eyes and cheerful smile.

"Oh, hello Amber! Are you here to help me with the cakes?"

I nodded and waited until she told me where the aprons were, donned one (slightly too big, but oh well), tied my hair up, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work.

Under the patient guidance of Miss Vogel, I managed to help make tons of biscuits and cakes, packaging sweets into adorable dinky paper bags of different colours and designs...all without blowing up the place! Hooray!

When the hour was almost over, the young woman turned to me and said:

"I hope you don't mind, but I seem to be a little short of flour, and I don't have the time to get more myself. Could you go over to Chef Romano's kitchen and get some for me? Don't worry, he knows the amount I'll need."

How could I refuse? Accepting, I made my way out of the classroom from whence I had come, back round the side of the school to hear Mr. Beilschmidt bellowing at the top of his lungs for the runners in his form to run faster or else he would kill them.

Intense stuff...

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**Break (11:00 am)**

On the east side of the main building, I was faced with the back door to the kitchen, through which I could already here the chaos and mayhem ensuring within. The yelling and cursing Italian, crashing of pots and pans, hissing of frying pans, bustling, shoving, more yelling, knives slicing (hopefully the food) and the over-worked subordinates muttering savagely under their breaths, to procure only more angry yelling from the enraged Italian chef.

Now, like any sensible person, I did not dare venture into that war-zone. Instead, like others before me, I banged as loudly as I could on the door so as to be heard over the din.

A few moments later, the door burst open _forwards _and would have smacked me straight in the face if my reflexes hadn't kicked in and made me jump back just in time. The open door presented me with a furious red-faced Italian (trademark curl and all), glaring at me murderously through the steam and shouting.

"WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT, BITCH?" he roared. "CAN'T YOU SEE I'M-A BUSY?"

"YES!" I yelled back. It was the only way. "BUT MISS VOGEL NEEDS MORE FLOUR!"

The Italian groaned and rolled his eyes.

"GODDAMNIT—FINE, WAIT HERE!" he ordered, slamming the door in my face and going back inside to get the flour...and not a knife.

I breathed a heavy sigh. Phew, talking to this guy was like walking straight into a raging hurricane.

A few minutes later, the door was flung open again, and Chef Romano hauled out two massive sacks of flour, and dumped them at my feet.

"THERE YOU GO!" he shouted.

"Wait...YOU DON'T EXPECT ME TO DRAG THESE THINGS ALL THE WAY ROUND THE SCHOOL TO MISS VOGEL, DO YOU?" I cried, outraged.

"YES!" the Italian replied, as if it was a perfectly reasonable request. "GET SOME MUSCLES IN THOSE WEAK GIRLY ARMS OF YOURS!"

"BUT I AM A GIRL!" I retorted, showing my skinny arms to emphasise my point. "AND MY MUSCLES ARE WEAK!"

Chef Romano shrugged.

"TOO BAD! I GOT WORK TO DO—SEE YOU AT-A LUNCH!"

He was about to close the door, when something caught his eye. His face suddenly turned purple with rage. I looked round to see what had made him so angry, and saw two boys running off with a bike.

"And there're two shit-bags running off with mah bro-ther's bike!" he muttered furiously, before bellowing: "LEAVE-A MAH BRO-THER'S BIKE ALONE YA LITTLE BASTARDS! I KNOW YOUR DADS!"

With that, he seized a rolling pin and made chase with the two unlucky thieves, shouting all the way, and leaving me to haul these two impossibly heavy bags of flour back to the Home Ec. classroom.

I tried. I really did. I even got around the side of the school, but my arms just couldn't take that kind of weight, and I flopped down, panting.

"Are you needing the helps, da?" asked a voice.

I looked up to see Mr. Braginski, appearing like a burly Russian angel from Heaven to save me from my distress, looking curiously down at me from his great height.

I nodded, too tired to speak.

The Russian beamed.

"OK," he said, in his charmingly thick accent. "I vill help you."

With those words, he picked up one of the bags of flour and hoisted it onto one of his broad shoulders as if it had been stuffed with feathers and not several hundred kilos of solid flour. Once this was done, the young man picked up the other bag and managed to balance it on the other shoulder.

I gaped, straightening up.

"Um...are-are you alright with that?" I asked, feeling guilty. "It's really heavy..."

Mr. Braginski laughed.

"Oh no, this is piece of cake for me, da!" he assured, and began sauntering along the path by the playing field. "So, where to?"

"Miss Vogel's classroom. Wow, sir...you're really strong!" I added, jogging to catch up, and looking up at him with awe as the Russian began whistling a jaunty tune, seemingly without a care in the world.

My large helper giggled. I repeat—GIGGLED.

"Aww, _spasiba_![3] People are always saying that...And they are right!"

Modesty in the making, people. Modesty in the making.

We were quiet for a while, passing the noisy sports activities, Mr Jones still insulting the opposing team with his all-American gusto, shovelling hamburgers down his throat all the while. The result was loud, enthusiastic gobbledegook no one could make out.

"...So. You are fine, da?" Mr. Braginski asked suddenly, his expression altogether more serious.

I blinked, not quite understanding.

"Um, yeah...I'm fine, why?"

"No, no, I meant: You are feeling fine after our talk the other day?" he corrected, peering down at me with those deep violet eyes.

I didn't need to think about it.

"I'm relieved that it's all going to be sorted out somehow," I said, "but at the same time, I'm...worried that that crazy guy might pull something on you and the other teachers he mentioned..."

Mr. Braginski smiled broadly.

"Don't be silly, we will be fine!" he promised, as if my worries had been entirely ridiculous. "A little girl should not worry about adult men! We can handle ourselve very well!"

I frowned, feeling like an idiot.

"Well, I'm sorry I cared," I muttered, walking on.

"Hey! I did not mean it like that!" the Russian insisted hastily, seizing my arm. Shit, I think he just about crushed it. "I am sorry—I'm glad you are worried, but you shouldn't...I mean..."

Flustered and panicking, Mr. Braginski grabbed me to his chest in his desperation to get me to understand, letting the heavy bags of flour fall and thud to the floor by his feet. I was filled with a cold horror, and tried to push away.

"N-No, sir, stop! The last person who did this almost got blown up!" I cried, struggling frantically in his tight embrace.

But the Russian held on.

"Nyet, I will not!" he persisted, voice rising to a hysterical pitch. "I will not let go of you! I—!"

"_IVAN!" _shouted a voice, jolting us apart. I looked to my left to see Mr. Beilschmidt running up to us, glaring at the Russian with anger flaring in his eyes.

"Vhat on earth were you _doing?_" he demanded, glaring at each one of us for explanation.

Ivan calmed down somewhat, and looked dejectedly at me. I was too shaken to respond at first, and I cleared my throat to speak.

"I...Iva—Mr. Braginski...was helping me with these bags...I was taking them to Miss Vogel's class...and...He asked me if I was alright after the other day, when we talked about...that hacker guy who threatened me. And...there was a misunderstanding—he told me not to worry, and I thought he didn't care that I cared...and...he hugged me. I didn't want him to, since Dr. Yao had been the first to hug me, and he almost got blown up...so...yeah, it's all a misunderstanding..."

Mr. Beilschmidt stared at me with those piercing blue eyes for a few moments, as if trying to deduce whether I was being truthful or not. Finally, he nodded slowly.

"I see. Alright zhen. Amber, you may go. Ivan and I vill take the flour to Miss Vogel ourselves. No objections," he instructed firmly, regarding Mr. Braginski with a stern hostility that forbid any objections on the Russian's part too.

Mr. Braginski cast one forlorn look at me, and nodded.

I left the two men alone. Watching them talk over my shoulder, it was clear I was the subject of their concern.

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**Third Period: Nothing, apparently. (11.40am)**

That was possibly the weirdest and most emotionally confusing forty minutes of my life. First I was yelled at by an Italian Chef who really needed to get laid, abandoned to an impossible task by said chef, helped by a Russian Geography teacher who ought to try out for the World's Strongest Man competition (and give the prize money away to our I.T department to make the room easier to move around in without being squished like a canned sardine, hugged by said Russian against own wishes, told I wouldn't be let go, stopped by angry German, and told to basically sod off and do whatever by angry German so they could not-too-subtly talk about me behind my back.

Bloody hell, did I need some of Mr. Kirkland's tea and scones right now. Minus the scones. They wouldn't probably destroy what little sense of taste I possessed after the last one.

Going back into the main building and re-entering the library, I was disappointed to see no frowning Brit anywhere in the place. Damn.

_T__hank you, universe, you love to deny me things I need when I need them. Thank you. Now I hate your guts..._

"Hey, Amber!" a cheerful young voice said.

I whirled around to see Justin Harris.

_I LOVE YOU UNIVERSE!_

"Uh, hey!" I said, caught off guard by his sudden and unexpected appearance behind me. I guess I'd been in too much of a daze to notice his presence.

Justin smiled. He was such a nice guy. Good-looking, too, but in a warm, pleasant way. Not cold and arrogantly self-aware, like some of the haughty heart-throbs of the school, who strutted around like they'd recently bought out the place. His features were tapered and well-defined, but still retaining its boyish charm most guys had lost in favour of perfection/sideburns/acne. Tousled nut-brown hair complimented his sea-blue eyes, and only emphasised his playful, bouncing demeanour. His lanky body combined with his awkward stance made him look unsteady on his own feet, swaying slightly on the spot. His bashful smile, ever present on his features, was fixed on me. Justin was kind of like a puppy, gushing with affection and oblivious as to be completely unaware it was about to be dressed up in a maid outfit and forced to go for a walk while wearing it.

Gullible, and easy pickings for bullies, is what I'm trying to get at. Thankfully, this was not the case as of last year, when he had suddenly gotten a steel backbone and a lot more sense, being able to thus avoid manipulation and bitching from people. There were a lot of theories: Mr. Kirkland may have lectured him to the point that he actually imprinted the sense into his brain via verbal torture; Mr. Braginski may have threatened him with death or worse if he didn't get some balls, da; Chef Romano's overall personality may have rubbed off on him somehow; Mr. Beilschmidt may have beat the shit out of him, and Mr. G most definitely would have helped out with that. There were countless others.

Looking over him again, I noticed with surprise that he was wearing his school uniform.

"Uh...did you forget your kit too?" I asked. Maybe he, like other students, was exempted from sports activities due to ailments, such as asthma.

Justin's smile broadened.

"Uh-huh," he replied. "I was on my way to help Mr. G with some stuff. Wanna come?"

I was only too happy to go with him, and so we made our way to the Drama building.

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On the way, we passed by Dr. Yao yelling down his mobile phone in his empty classroom.

"What do you mean _'What do I do with them' _aru? BEAT THEM, ARU! When student disrespects teacher, it is time for ass-whooping! Yes, it will hurt them—nothing is learnt without a bit of pain! I DON'T CARE WHAT YOUR ANCESTORS WOULD SAY, ARU! BEAT THE LITTLE SHITS, ARU! IF YOU DON'T, I'LL COME UP THERE AND DO IT MYSELF!"

We got out of there as the furious Chinese man hung up before he noticed us.

"I wonder who he was talking to?" I wondered, as we were out of earshot.

"Hm...Maybe Mr. Honda, because of the 'ancestors' stuff," Justin replied. "It's weird that Mr. Honda would actually be hesitant in punishing his students."

I pondered on this.

"Well, Mr. Honda has never actually physically hit any of us. He's just scared the shit out of us with his evil auras and by destroying random objects with his samurai sword or karate moves," I revealed, grinning at the memory. "It worked so far...maybe someone with nerves of steel's defying him."

With that 'mystery' solved, we turned the corner, and instantly tripped over a bucket of soapy water, which toppled and splashed everywhere.

A mop leaning on the side, which I had grabbed in a desperate but vain attempt to keep upright, crashed down along with us, and in seconds we were laughing hysterically in a huge puddle of soapsuds.

The laughing stopped when a red-haired demon charged up the corridor like a bull that'd caught his best friend sleeping with his wife, grabbed us by the hair and yanked us to our feet.

"Oh, s'yeh actually _enjoy _makin' my life difficult do ya, ya little shites?" he bellowed, face a deep beetroot colour.

Jerking myself free, I faced the furious Irishman.

"Hey, your damn bucket was right behind the corner there—anyone would trip over it!" I protested. "If you'd have put it somewhere where we could see it, maybe this wouldn't have happened!"

Mr. McCarthy was unperturbed.

"Yer makin' EXCUSES now, are yeh?" he shouted. "The little wench who took the piss'a me bein' homeless and what-not!"

"You had that coming, you miserable old bastard!" I yelled back, livid. "Maybe if you weren't such a drunken asshole all the time we wouldn't feel the need to insult you!"

"Yeah, leave her alone!" Justin put in, moving forward so as he was closest to the Irishman and the easier target for whatever punishment he wished to bestow.

I was shocked. Nobody had actively defended me before. I had been the one who was forced to do that.

The caretaker blinked, but then glowered at the pair of us with such hatred that I was momentarily frightened of him.

"I see," he rumbled. "So yer boyfriend'n girlfriend, eh? Young and in love, eh?" He spat on the floor in disgust. "You make me sick. Get the feck out of my sight 'fore I shove your heads in the water and use you as scrubbing brushes!"

We slipped and dashed as fast as our sopping wet shoes would allow us.

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**Fourth Period: Soaking wet and helping out Mr. G. (12.20pm)**

After drying ourselves off as much as we could in the toilet hand-dryers, we finally approached the door of Mr. G's classroom.

We knocked, for safety.

No answer.

We entered into a dark room engulfed in an unsettling silence. I shivered as Mr. Braginski's ominous words came back to the forefront of my mind.

_Don't go out in the dark. Bad things hide there._

Justin flicked on the lights and illuminated the empty room. We called out, and looked around for any sign of him, but were met with nothing.

"Uh...maybe he went to the loo," Justin assumed helpfully, not sharing the rising sense of sick dread I felt.

I rushed to the store cupboard door on the other side of the room and pulled at the knob. It was locked. Damn.

"Justin, grab something and break this lock!" I ordered frantically, panic rising in my voice.

The boy stared, alarmed and confused at my sudden mood swing.

"Amber, what—?"

"Just do it! Something's wrong here, I know it!" I added, as Justin seemed about to protest.

He looked around, and finally came back with a hammer he'd found in an abandoned box of tools nearby the broken blacked-out window (all windows were covered up to best darken the room in the event of performances) that had been thus for quite some time. I backed away as Justin bashed mercilessly at the knob, knocking it and the lock clean off, and we flung open the door.

I screamed.

Mr G was lying crumpled and motionless among his props and costumes, bleeding from a head wound that stained his shirt a blotchy dark red.

I fell to my knees and sobbed while Justin shakily called for help on his mobile phone.

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**Lunch (13:50pm)**

I sat dazed and cold outside the drama room as Mr. G was taken in an ambulance, followed by a stunned and visibly worried Mr. Beilschmidt and Mr. Feli. The police who had arrived had already questioned Justin and me, taken down our statements, and were now talking with the other members of staff who had congregated here. Blue and red lights flashed accusingly in my face, and I buried my head in my bunched-up knees. Police and teachers alike had gathered and were muttering worriedly amongst themselves. Even Ms. Héderváry, despite all the hateful things she had said about the albino Prussian, was near tears and being comforted by Mr. Edelstein, who, despite also being on strained terms with the assaulted man, was visibly disturbed by the sudden event. I was too shaken to hear clearly what any of them were talking about.

That bastard hacker had done this. He'd targeted Mr. G first and hurt him. Maybe even...

I curled myself up tighter into a ball and moaned. This was all my fault. If I hadn't spoken to that bastard that day, given him an excuse to target my best teachers in order to hurt me, then this wouldn't have happened...

"Amber."

It was Justin, sitting down beside me, and peering at me with concerned crystal-blue eyes.

"Hey, it wasn't your fault. It's this bastard's fault—he's the one who's doing all this, not you!"

I looked up at him with my eyes, no doubt swollen and red from crying.

"B-but I responded to him, and by doing that...I gave him the incentive to do what he did!" I murmured thickly.

Justin put his arm around me, and my face flushed. Odd.

"We don't know that. This guy sounds like he's had a grudge for a while—he would've done what he's doing whether you spoke to him or not. He just targeted you as an added bonus," he assured, sounding as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.

Hm. That was very likely. The way the hacker had so viciously referred to the specific teachers in question, and the spite that underlay the taunt about me getting close and personal with them...

I wiped my eyes, almost relieved. Blaming myself was ludicrous, thinking about it properly, thanks to Justin's rational comfort.

"Y-you're right. What the hell was I thinking? Beating myself up is not going to help things, or anyone else, let alone myself."

I managed a smile, which Justin returned.

"Yeah! Now, let's go find Mr. McDick and kick over his bucket again!"

I tittered, making sure to do it quietly. It would be horrible to laugh out loud when such a dreadful thing had happened, and it would disrespect all the worried people around me. The weight of anxiety had not left my stomach, but I was feeling better about myself. Still, I couldn't show it.

"Best not, he'll probably kill us with a bottle of washing detergent," I said, smirking despite myself.

Justin winked.

"Not if we're caught."

I got up, but before I went with Justin I went over to the tearful Ms. Héderváry to say a few words of comfort.

"I'm...I'm sure Mr. G'll be fine," I said, smiling clumsily. Christ, I royally sucked at comforting people. God help me when I have kids. They'll turn out the most emotionally retarded individuals that ever lived.

The Hungarian returned the gesture, but didn't say anything.

"Oh, don't worry—it'll take more than that to do away with that beer-drinking dummkopf!" Mr. Edelstein put in pointedly, arching his eyebrows and rolling his eyes as he always seemed to while talking. "He'll be back and raving in no time."

I smiled and thanked him, running to meet up with Justin as we made our way to the main building. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Mr. Braginski standing separate to the commotion, surveying the scene with a strange, sad look on his face.

He caught me looking, locked gazes with me, and hastily looked down at his shoes. I guessed he was still embarrassed about our previous encounter.

Shaking the Russian out of my mind for the moment, I followed Justin into what was probably the most daring venture since Mission Impossible.

That damned theme tuned stayed with me through the rest of the day.

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**Fifth Period: Fecking with an Irishman...and not in that way! (14:20pm)**

Well, we did it. And almost got brutally murdered by an enraged Irishman wielding a bottle of Detol and shit-clogged mop. Then Mr. Kirkland turned up and drove the crazed man away by throwing scones at him like tiny and thoroughly inedible grenades. Worked like a charm. Hah. Charm. I'm so funny.

Good times, good times.

At the back of my mind, Mr G's unconscious body and bloody head haunted me. The horrible thing was, I'd never got round to thanking him. Even more so, I might never be able. This, as well as Mr. Beilschmidt's horrified expression when he saw me come out of the room in which his own brother had been attacked.

He didn't suspect me, surely? The thought that my favourite teacher thought me a murderer terrified me. I'd never be able to talk to him again.

The day ended on a depressed note which I tried not to let Justin see.

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**End of Day (15:00 pm).**

Standing at the bus stop, I stared vacantly into space, my mind consumed with worry over Mr. G. Such a lively, fun-loving, all-round awesome person didn't deserve such a thing...

"AMBER!" a distinctly Italian voice roared, making me and everybody else at the bus stop jolt.

I turned to see Chef Romano striding up to me, over-sized chef's hat, apron and fierce expression still being worn.

"We all got the news from Ludwig just a minute ago—Gilbert is going to be fine! He's awake and they've finished stitching his wound up. It wasn't as bad as it first looked."

I felt weak at the knees, and had to sit down. I was so overwhelmed I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I ended up doing both very quickly, though, when the Italian continued:

"Oh, and I have a message from Gilbert. We told him everything. He says: _'Tell Ruhiges Mädchen to stop freaking out, the avesome me is NOT DEAD! Also, I have some wurst in the fridge in my office for you and Justin to share—I saved zhem for after you cleaned out my cupboard today. But don't touch zhem until you do it!'"_

I laughed, tears threatening to spill. Chef Romano fidgeted, not quite sure how to react. He wasn't the emotional type—unless the emotion was anger. He then seemed to think 'Ah, to hell with it!', came over to me and patted me on the shoulder.

"There. Happy now?" he mumbled, clearly embarrassed.

I grinned.

"Yes, sir. Very. Although, not so much that now you've got flour on my uniform. Now I have to wash it off!" I added playfully.

The Italian held his hands up in mock-surrender.

"Oh, I'm nice for a minute and I get moaned at! Fine, the chilli sauce goes in your dinner next Monday!" he huffed, turning on his heel and strutting away.

"Thanks, sir!" I called out, ignoring the confused looks of the people around me.

The Italian waved a hand, and made his way back to the school building.

Seconds later, my bus chugged into view, and I leapt onto it in my ecstasy.

Sitting in my seat and watching the world go by, I grinned as I thought: _Fuck it, I'm skipping home!_

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TO BE CONTINUED!

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TRANSLATION NOTES:

[1] "THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!": Line from the famous horror movie 'The Exorcist', used by the priest exorcising the demon-possessed little girl.

[2] 'the Wood Technology teacher who always seemed to be making clocks': The Swiss obsession with punctuality has something to do with watch-making, which is a traditional industry. (Note: the Swiss didn't invent the cuckoo-clock; they were invented in southern Germany).

[3] '_spasiba': _'Thank you', in Russian.


	6. Investigation, Janice and Baseball Bats

**So, SO sorry for the horribly long wait, guys...Don't worry, Europa High is back with a vengeance and more is coming your way soon! ;) I hope you enjoy chapter six!**

**-Frosty**

* * *

><p>Chapter 6: Investigation, Janice and Baseball Bats<p>

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**Monday- Week 2.**

Since the incident with Clarisse and her hench-bitches, I'd been avoiding Janice like the plague had decided to make a reprise in her small body. I'd seen her around, and noticed with surprise that her 'bodyguards' weren't at her heels. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to confront her about this sometime during the course of the day.

The weekend had been pretty dull. I'd got my homework done and gone over the stuff I didn't get until I was forced to consult Google for help, and lounged around the house afterwards. I kept myself busy with chores and such, and feeling like a repressed 1940's housewife. Jesus Christ, this was how bad my social life had gotten; doing household cleaning instead of clubbing. Dad was on a business trip up north, so I was home alone for the duration of the weekend. He would often call me to make sure everything was alright, that I hadn't been kidnapped and we hadn't been robbed, and to vent about how mind-numbingly laborious his work was.

Parents like to vent to their kids, I've found. Especially parents whose jobs are hard and unspeakably boring. I was alright with that—it gave me a chance to help my dad through verbal encouragement and a few anecdotes of humour. I told him about the recent incidents concerning this mystery hacker and the grudge he or she seemed to have towards me. Dad was thoroughly disturbed, as any decent parent would be, and suggested I call the police. I said they'd already been informed, and no doubt an investigation would be launched following the next week.

I was right on the money with that one.

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><strong>Registration: (9:20am)<strong>

This particular morning, Mr. Beilschmidt was even less willing to waste his words on us.

Registering us all with no more than a quick scan of the room with his eyes, he proceeded to shout the following words: "ASSEMBLY. IN ZHE HALL. IMPORTANT. GO NOW!"

Simplicity was good. Especially if it was German.

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.  
>Europa High's main hall was a sight to make your eyes voluntarily pop out of their sockets. It was a vast place, capable of housing twice the number of the school's total population in its space. Extravagant chandeliers hung from the ceilings, alit with candle-glow, and dazzling in the light. The wooden beams were beautifully carved with intricate swirls and holy symbols, incredibly life-like wooden statues of saints stationed at certain points across the two lengths of them, hands outstretched as if to bless us all. The floor was gleaming (under Mr. Beilschmidt's frighteningly watchful eye and Mr. McDick's crazy drunken mopping sprees), and filled with row upon row of oak pews, like those you find in a grand cathedral. I liked to imagine this room had once been part of a grand monastery that was preserved upon its demolition and revival as an institution of education. There was an aura of pious quiet in this place, so delicate and ethereal that we all kept our voices at a whisper so as not to disturb it. In short, this was the most beautiful place in the entire school. In minutes, with guidance from our form tutors and subject teachers, we were seated, and waiting for what was to come.<p>

Grandpa Rome, Mr. Feli and Chef Romano's remarkably-young-looking grandfather, suddenly waltzed in from the door in which we had entered, jogging up the aisle and high-fiving students and teachers alike, reminding me eerily of my overly-affectionate uncle who was arrested last year for frolicking stark naked through the park at lunchtime. I imagined Grandpa Rome fully capable of doing the same thing.

The Deputy Head, Mr. Sour Face, of unknown Germanic descent, stood stiffly nearby; long-haired, blonde, and face set in a permanent frosty glare, set it on the gushing Italian man. The man practically resonated hatred.

Jeez...

Presently, the headmaster took his customary station at the front of the huge audience on the grand podium, greeted us all with a loud "CIAO EVERYBODY!", sounding like a particularly gay Mario, or rather, a Mario so impossibly gay his other gay friends kicked him off the virtual cliff and into GAME OVER for good. "I have serious news to report, so you don't-a mind if I act all boring for a bit, hah?"

I felt a distinct sensation of dread the moment the man said '_actboring', like being serious was something he was so bad at that..._

"Everybody," Grandpa Rome commenced, with the most deadpan expression and voice I'd ever heard, "we have been targeted by a crazy person who wants to kill us all—well, only us teachers, really—so the school will be closed as of this Friday for the safety of our staff and students! Meaning until then we'll all be pitifully vulnerable to random and violent attacks. So there will be police on the grounds all this week to make sure nobody else gets attacked! Make sure to lock your doors, just in case! That is all!"

...he scared the shit out of everybody.

The effect was immediate. The whole assembly erupted in frightened voices, shifting and jerking around to look at each-other in horror. I was the only one who was relatively composed, naturally knowing what to expect—that is, the subject matter, not the horribly blunt way the headmaster told it. The girls all around me were whimpering and whispering frantically amongst themselves, the boys putting up a tough front and scoffing at their female peers, even though it was painfully obvious that if a psychotic maniac ever did come after them, _they _would be screaming louder than any of the girls could. The Deputy Head, Mr. Beilschmidt, Mr Kirkland and Chef Romano (who only turned up to have an excuse to skive off his kitchen duties), all simultaneously fixed the most scathing WTF glare at their oblivious Italian Head, with the Brit adding to the shared outrage and disbelief by mouthing "YOU BLOODY PILLOCK" in full view of the smiling Italian.

All the other teachers present worked to calm the alarmed students down, glaring accusingly at the wrong-doer.

Grandpa Rome beamed, hopelessly ignorant of the panic he had just spread in less than a few minutes.

"That's all!" he chirruped. "Have-a nice day everybody!"

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**First Period: History (10.00am)**

Naturally, the atmosphere in the classroom, or any classroom throughout the school at that time for that matter, was stunned and silent. Everyone was too distracted by the ominous news to concentrate on what Mr. Honda was talking about, instead either staring into space, whispering to one another, or just doodling idly. A few of the boys, I suspected, just used the morning's assembly as an excuse not to do any work. The Japanese man finally gave up and set about trying to motivate us all individually and tell us that the headmaster hadn't meant what he said.

We were more convinced by Mr G's proclamation of supreme Godhood than we were by that.

The lesson ended after what seemed like hours, and the rest of the class filed out mumbling and uneasy out of the room, while I was left still packing up my stuff. I'd been the only one to actually prepare for a lesson, while everyone else just hadn't bothered.

Mr. Honda approached me quietly, and I looked up into his visibly worried face.

"Kohaku [Amber]-san, you are not anxious, are you?" he questioned.

Instantly my nerves exploded.

"N-no, sir, please don't come near me!" I spluttered, shoving the last of my stuff into my bag and rushing to the door. No...not Mr. Honda too! God, no!

I was already uncomfortable with the constant threat of more teachers being hurt hanging over my head, but the wave of anxiety that had rippled throughout the school, reflecting and irritating my own, amplified my emotions to their limit.

"_Kohaku-san!"_

The near-shout made me jolt and freeze in my tracks. It was like hearing an angry car horn in the middle of a silent traffic jam—you didn't expect it, and it scared the shit out of you. Turning slightly, I saw the Japanese man smiling mildly at me, and I felt a grandfatherly warmth radiating from him.

"Prease, do not worry. Arr sharr be werr," he soothed, before bowing slightly and motioning me to go.

I left with a nod of thanks, feeling as if half of my burden had just melted from my consciousness. Still, the gnawing dread ate away at the memory of the Japanese man's smiling face, until all I could see was darkness.

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**Second Period: English (10.40am)**

"Oi!" an irritated British accent barked. "Wake up, you lazy sods! I don't care what the headmaster said, you're not going to skive off so easily in _myclass!"_

Mr. Kirkland glared at us in outrage, clapping his hands loudly to snap the dazed and muttering class back to reality.

Being near enough to the front, I managed to hear the Brit mutter: "Bloody kids," under his breath.

Grudgingly, we focused on the Brit's freakishly large eyebrows as the only feature that we were all equally mystified and dumbfounded by. They were like fuzzy gold bars—disturbing but irresistibly fascinating.

"Right," Mr. Kirkland muttered, putting on his reading glasses and flipping open his copy of Macbeth. "Let's get cracking."

Glancing up briefly to see if we had all followed suit, his hawk-like green eyes caught sight of something. Closing the book and setting it down on his desk, the bristly-haired blonde walked over to the cupboard and took out the biggest damn dictionary in it, holding it firmly with both hands, and made his way down the centre of the class. We all watched him in silence, baffled, and looked round to the back of the classroom where our teacher was approaching.

Then we saw what had clearly pissed the English teacher right off. Two delinquent boys, sitting at the back of the class, had decided it would be just fine to take a nap, leaning over their desks, head resting on their arms, fast asleep.

Unfortunately, they had severely underestimated Mr. Kirkland's total lack of tolerance for that sort of thing.

Stopping at their shared desk, he raised the dictionary high above his head, eyes flashing with rage, and slammed it down with all his might upon the wooden surface with such an almighty BANG the two boys awoke so violently they lost their balance, fell backwards and crashed onto the carpeted floor, too shocked to speak.

Everyone roared with laughter, any worry or tension that had once existed dissolving instantly.

"Think you can just doze off in my lesson, can you?" the Brit shouted, face contorted with anger. "Well, I have no time for waste of spaces like you: Get out!"

The two delinquents recovered enough sense to protest.

"But sir, we're tired!" one slurred, struggling to get to his feet.

"I don't care if your fat slut of a mother stuffed sleeping pills down your throat! You do NOT bloody sleep in my class! You want to sleep, go to Mr. Karpusi's class!" Mr. Kirkland fumed, wedging his fat dictionary under his arm.

Mr. Karpusi was a lethargic Greek man who taught Classics for the older students. There were rumours that the only things that went on in that classroom were siestas, drug-induced debates over the sanctity of meat (the drugs provided by none other than our Dutch benefactor) and barbeques, completely oblivious to all the things impossibly hazardous about partaking in any of the above.

"But—!"

"OUT!" he roared, seizing the dictionary in both hands and swinging it at them with such murderous intent the boys scarpered, ran out of the room and were gone down the English corridor.

Mr. Kirkland let out a tired, irritated sigh, put the fat papery weapon down on the now-empty desk in front of him, made his way back to the front of the class, and resumed the lesson as if nothing had happened.

That was the power of his stiff-upper-lip and overall Britishness. A nuclear bomb could have gone off in the nearby gypsy park and it wouldn't have deterred him from reading his beloved Shakespeare, and his last words would be: _"To be or not to be...  
><em>

_...fucked."_

Personally, I'd rather "be" alive than die for the sake of English literature at the hands of a crazed-gypsy-induced nuclear explosion.

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**Break: (11:00am)**

Now was the time. I had to scour the school for Janice, choosing break-time to do so because it meant I could speak to her for as little time as possible. I supposed I was being a bit harsh, Janice _hadbeen pressured by three of the biggest and meanest bullies in the school. But that aside, it was still impossible for me to be friends with her as she was. She reminded me too much of my younger, weedier self before I acquired my scathing sarcasm and grew some balls (not literally, you understand, but nonetheless...)._

This is probably the reason Mr. Kirkland had a mutual but unspoken understanding of each-other.

Getting back to the main focus of the story, I finally found her in the same place I had last time; sat at one of the wooden tables in the open-air area in the very heart of the school complex. Sitting quietly by herself munching on her sandwiches, she was the picture of loneliness. I felt a pang of empathy, but it passed as I recalled how she had destroyed my hopes.

I sat down opposite her and got right to the point to avoid any awkward pleasantries.

"Hey, where're your bodyguards?" I asked, deliberately sounding as bitter and sarcastic as was humanly possible, perhaps giving even Mr. Kirkland a run for his money.

Janice stared at me, astonished.

"Um...hi..." she managed. "I thought you weren't going to talk to me again?"

"And I won't, after this," I said bluntly. "Answer my question and I'll leave."

Janice's face fell and she looked at me imploringly.

"Look, they just latched on to me one day and said they were going to 'protect' me from anyone who came near me! They threatened to bully me if I refused! What did you expect me to do? You've been in the same position; you should understand what I went through better than anyone, right?"

I did, but was too angered by her all-too-familiar vulnerability, and clenched my teeth. I saw myself sitting there in front of me, so pitiful and weak and desperate to be saved. I bit back the urge to punch Janice straight in the face.

"Whatever. You gonna answer me or not?" I muttered, more harshly than I could have imagined.

Janice fumbled with her new plaits.

"Well...they said one day that they had something to take care of. They didn't tell me what it was when I asked," she replied timidly.

My heart skipped a beat.

"When did they tell you that?" I asked, terrified of the answer.

"Um...last Wednesday, I think..."

I stared, a kind of cold, seeping horror consuming my whole being. Last Wednesday was when my chatroom was hacked, the day this whole spiralling chaos started...

"You think they're behind the attacks?" Janice asked tentatively, fearfully.

I swallowed, anger bubbling in my stomach and rising up my throat as I choked out the words.

"I know it. Those damn bitches will stop at nothing to make sure I'm never happy" I snarled, jumping up. "I'm gonna kill them..."

Two hands took hold of my shoulders.

"I don't think killing will be very good, da?"

The hands coaxed me back down on my seat, and I turned my head upwards to see the eerily smiling face of Mr. Braginski.

The Russian took one brief glance at Janice and said one word:

"Leave."

She scarpered.

We were alone again.

I must admit, I was unsettled being in his company again, especially after the weird incident on Sports Day. Mr. Braginski's newfound unpredictability intensified the swirling anxiety in my gut, and I shifted awkwardly in my seat as the Russian took Janice's place opposite me.

Mr. Braginski clasped his hands in front of him on the table's surface, and his smile broadened.

"So, what have you learnt?"

I didn't want to tell him. Yes, it was information that would go to a good cause; catching the nutters that were pulling off these attacks, but for some reason I thought telling this particular teacher would do more harm than good. Perhaps it was the Russian's secretiveness, his silent cunning, or large, powerful exterior that threatened violence, or a combination of all three. Thus, I wasn't quite convinced that he believed in his own words that _'killing wouldn't be good'. 'Da'._ Notwithstanding, I was determined to be tight-lipped.'

"I...I don't think her information is valid enough, sir," I said.

The Russian was unperturbed, and still smiling.

"Nevertheless, it can still be investigated," he affirmed airily.

"Sir, honestly, it was nothing."

"Your reaction was hardly one of someone hearing about 'nothing'."

My patience evaporated, and I just told him straight:

"Look, sir, with all due respect—I don't want to tell you."

Mr. Braginski was silent, and stared at me with genuine surprise. His expression reminded me of a kicked puppy, mournful and questioning.

God I hated myself right there.

"...Is it about what happened on Sports Day?" the Russian asked quietly, looking down at his clasped hands.

I also looked away, down at the table.

"...Yes."

How could I say otherwise? It was so glaringly obvious.

"Yantar," Mr. Braginski said, looking at me dead in the eye, apologetic. "I'm sorry I frightened you. I only...I am worried for you. You are the only student of mine who does not keep away from me. I do not want anything to take you away. I know I acted erratically, but I want you to understand my feelings. Nobody talks to me here. Not the students, not the teachers. Big sister is always busy in the fields, and Natalya...I don't want that kind of company," he added, shuddering. 'You are the only one who I can freely speak to without being afraid or paranoid that they are suspicious of me." Then his deep violet eyes took on a misty, unfocused glaze as they looked past me into the distance.

"I am alone."

It suddenly hit me all at once just how bad Mr. Braginski had it. He quite literally had nobody but himself, and he quite clearly didn't think much of himself, or his life in general. And there I was, prior to the events of this year, wallowing in my own problems like I was the most badly off person in the world! What kind of self-centred ass was I? At least I knew I had my parents there, and my teachers, and that, once I got out of this place, was free and quite capable of finding at least a small group of people to hang around with in this unimaginably vast planet of mine.

Mr Braginski did not have that hope. Stuck in his ways, his life, he had no choice but to lump it no matter that he hated it.

And here was me rejecting him, afraid of him. How much must that have hurt him?

I was so guilt-ridden I didn't know what to say without gushing and bursting into tears.

"I...I'm sorry, I..."

Mr. Braginski blinked back to his usual smiling self and waved a hand dismissively.

"Don't worry about it, I brought it on myself for not explaining myself sooner!" he said.

I shook my head.

"No, I of all people should have realised..."

Again, Mr. Braginski assured me it was his own fault, and his determined tone made it impossible for me to persuade him otherwise.

So I told him everything Janice had said, the Russian listening intently and seriously.

When I had finished, he nodded somewhat to himself, as if fitting a plan in his head. He then assured me he would inform the headmaster and that the girls I specified would be detained and called in for questioning, and that they would also examine their record of conduct in the three years they had attended Europa High. Getting up, Mr. Braginski held out a hand to me.

"Friends?" he asked.

I smiled and shook his hand. It almost enclosed mine entirely.

"Friends," I said.

Smiling broadly as if his birthday had come early, Mr. Braginski nodded and, releasing my hand, turned and walked away.

"By the way, break finished five minutes ago," he informed cheerfully, waving.

I gasped "Holy shit!", grabbed my bag, and rushed off, with the Russian's playful laughter making my lateness worthwhile.

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**Third Period: Science (11.40am)**

Dr. Yao was thankfully not in when I arrived.

He did not appear five minutes afterwards.

Nor after an hour had passed either.

We waited for the entire lesson, and still our Science teacher did not appear.

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**Fourth Period: Art (12.20am)**

The second I got into the classroom I asked Mr. Feli where Dr. Yao was. My nerves were too strong to endure until the next Science lesson. I had to ask.

The young Italian beamed.

"Oh, he said he had discovered a new Chinese buffet that opened recently near his place, and he wasn't going to miss it!"

I laughed out loud, perhaps more so because I was so relieved. It was just like the Chinese man to put food before his job. In Dr. Yao's own words: "Jobs gives you security, but food gives you life, and without it you would be dead!"

Gosh, sir, I didn't know _that!_

Anyway, enlightened by Mr. Feli's clarification, I practically whistled my way through the lesson, which revolved around painting imaginary bowls of pasta. We literally had to use our imagination. That means that 99.9% of people did not draw a bowl of pasta at all, but something completely different. The girls drew themselves. The boys drew penises.

I drew a giant bowl of pasta with all the teachers in chibi form jumping around in it like it was a kiddie pool.

Mine was hung up on the wall for display.

The others were burnt by Mr. Feli himself when everyone else had left for lunch.

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**Lunchtime: (13.20pm)**

In the canteen, lining up for my meal with all the other 'school dinner spongers' (I'd forgot my packed lunch at home), I spotted Chef Romano and his obligatory ladle shouting his head off at people who asked for second helpings if theirs was too small/fat kids/and people who gave him notes instead of coins, because the Italian never had any change, even in the till, and had to ask his own assistants for some. Rumour had it that he spent the change on buying tomatoes from Mr. Carriedo.

When it was my turn, I braced myself for a mouthful of abuse.

Instead, Chef Romano did the single most creepiest thing ever.

He smiled. Slightly.

And then proceeded to give me second helpings.

Everyone was too horrified to be angry that I'd been given special treatment. To cope with the shock, they all accepted that the Italian was the result of a cloning experiment by the ever-eccentric Dr. Yao, and the real crazy Italian was tied up in a cupboard somewhere.

No sooner had I sat down, Mr. Beilschmidt burst into the canteen wielding perhaps the biggest sausage ever witnessed by human eyes, gesturing with it wildly.

"ARSCHLOCH, I TOLD YOU NEVER TO PUT MY WURST WITH YOUR TOMATOES! NOW MY PRECIOUS SAUSAGES ARE TAINTED VITH YOUR PUSSY RED FRUIT!"

Instantly Chef Romano threw himself over the counter and was out of the kitchen before anyone could say 'Mama Mia!'

"FUCK YOU AND YOUR FUCKING WURST, GO SHOVE IT UP YOUR BROTHER'S ASS LIKE IN THE HUNGARIAN WOMAN'S PORN!" he bellowed, wielding his ladle like it was Excalibur fallen on hard times.

"I TOLD YOU I DO NOT PARTAKE IN INCEST, VHICH IS MORE ZHAN I CAN SAY FOR YOU!" Mr. Beilschmidt roared back, storming right into the Italian's face.

"I DON'T-A CARE WHAT THAT STU-PID DRUNKEN IRISHMAN TOLD YOU, I DO NOT FUCK MY BROTHER UP THE ASS!"

On one of the staff tables, Mr. Feli choked on his pasta.

Mr. G (already back and shoving his greatness into people's faces with only a light bandage to show for his ordeal) was busy filming the whole thing on his Iphone, cackling like a sex fiend. Everyone else with a phone and deviant mind followed suit.

Mr. Honda was trying to block everything out with his Impenetrable Wall of Polite Indifference.

It wasn't working. The man was paling more and more by the minute and sweating.

The other teachers just tried to keep their lunches down.

"OH LIKE YOU HAVEN'T THOUGHT OF GETTING YOUR HAIRY GERMAN DICK INTO YOUR BROTHER'S A-HOLE ONCE OR TWICE!" Chef Romano insisted, miming the action with his hands.

Mr. G gagged, still somehow managing to keep his phone straight.

Ms. Héderváry was using all her colleagues' napkins in an attempt to stop her uncontrollable nosebleed.

"FICK DICH, MY BROTHER WOULD NEVER BE SUCH A PUSSY AS TO LET ME TO ZHAT TO HIM! HE MASTURBATES INSTEAD!"

Mr. G dropped his phone, and tried to hide himself in Ms. Héderváry's breasts, but got a hard slap in response from the violated Hungarian woman.

He resorted to hiding under the table, and, to my knowledge, refused to come out until every last student and teacher had deleted the footage from their phones and forcibly drugged with Rohypnol (except the good ones who they knew would be too terrified of the consequences to say a word about it, including me) to forget the entire embarrassing episode.

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I went out for some fresh air after the chaotic and hilarious affair in the canteen, and decided to walk around the school and cool my head from the worrying thoughts Janice had set in motion. I thought about Clarisse and her henchwomen, thinking about their cruelty, and how they had gone this far just to torment me. They had always resented me from day one, whether through envy or just brute sadism, and had done everything in the book just to make my life miserable...expect this.

It was them, I knew it. Hostile and with a history of trouble and attacks outside school, it would be no surprise that they were capable of attacking a teacher. There was no love between the girls and the staff at Europa High; that much had been painfully obvious. I had kept my ears open for gossip, and had discovered that the girl gang had not been seen around school, only glimpsed in corridors whispering secretively to each other.

...Scum, all of them. Just scum. If I had the authority, I would have cheerfully hung them all.

I turned the corner past the back door to Chef Romano's kitchen, hearing the manic banging, clanging and shouting from within, and alongside the back of the school, the playground and playing fields which had only last week held the Sports Day event stretched out on my right.

Remembering all the crazy stuff that had been going on in that event made me laugh out loud (luckily, no one was around. They were all either drugged in the canteen or someplace indoors. The Headmaster's address that morning had spooked them into staying indoors, just in case.

I didn't blame them. The only reason I could walk around in the open was that I knew I, at least, for now, was not the prime target.

I didn't know who was. That was what terrified me the most. The idea that, at any moment, maybe even right this second, a teacher I admired and liked would be lying battered or choked somewhere in the school...

I shuddered, and stopped by the back door leading to the changing rooms to calm down.  
>After taking a few short breaths, I suddenly felt a chill and decided I needed the security of the indoors.<p>

I tried the doorknob, and to my relief found it was unlocked, and so went in.

I looked inside, saw another wall, and turned left to walk down the narrow corridor and turning left to go into the room proper, and turned again to do so.

I stopped.

My screams rang out throughout the chamber, the air vibrating in horrible, piercing echoes.

Mr. Jones lay motionless face-down on the cold tiled floor, arms and legs bent and broken in sickening twisted angles. Blood leaked from his partially open mouth.

Four baseball bats lay discarded around his body.

Too late.

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Ambulances. Flashing lights. Noises. I heard them, saw them, but my brain did not register any of what it recognised. It was as if I was walking in some ghoulish black nightmare that I saw no end to.

I saw terrified students being sent home early and given directions while staff members huddled together and whispering.

I, numb and unconscious of anyone's words, made my way silently into the school, everyone else too preoccupied with the matter at hand to worry about me. I wandered down the silent English corridor, hushed as if in mourning, my footsteps loud and screaming out my guilt as it desecrated the sacred quiet.

I stopped by Mr. Kirkland's classroom, and looked in through the vertical rectangular glass pane imbedded in the door.

I saw him sitting at his desk, his face resting on his clasped palms, elbows resting on the wooden surface, in a heavy, despondent silence. He looked so nakedly and horribly vulnerable.

Then I noticed his clasped hands begin to shake. Slowly, his shoulders sagged, and his whole upper body began to crumple as he, bit by bit, slumped forward onto the desk, arms buckled and shaking as the hands entangled themselves in his hair as if to keep the pain from bursting out.

Mr. Kirkland remained thus, forehead pressed against his work-desk, broken, hands in his hair, sobbing.

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>TO BE CONTINUED.<p> 


	7. Keep Calm and Carry On

Chapter 7: Keep Calm and Carry On

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><p><strong>IT'S BACK! YEEEEEEEEEAH! Sorry for the long wait, it's been hard to find time with revising and exams recently. After they're over in a week's time, the updates will come faster!<strong>

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The incident with Mr. Jones was the last straw for the authorities, and, with the backing of the school board and the consent of the headmaster, Europa High was put under indefinite closure. Mr Kirkland was absolutely livid with Grandpa Rome for having so gravely underestimated the danger and allowed such a thing to happen again. I heard that prior to finding him weeping in his classroom, the inconsolable Brit had to be physically restrained by several of the staff to stop him from killing the Italian headmaster.

The frustration of being prevented from enacting justice on the man, combined with the horror and grief at seeing Mr Jones, with whom he shared an unexplained father-son relationship (despite being around the same age) in such a state, and not being able to go in the ambulance with him, had been too much for the Brit, and he had broke down. And, unbeknownst to him, I had witnessed it.

To this day I have no idea if Mr. Kirkland knew I had seen him lose all composure that day, and never dared to bring up the subject, even before I left Europa High forever. The humiliation it would cause would be horrible. I had witnessed what no man ever wished anyone to see; themselves in a state so nakedly vulnerable that all at once they are a different person altogether. I could never bring myself to say anything, terrified of the raw feelings doing so would expose, and too ashamed that I had stood and watched such a personal moment like a dumb spectator to a circus act.

But then, by writing it here, I have compensated for this in the worst of ways. In fact, I've revealed the secret to more than just one person, but many. I've taken the cowardly way out, as I always did back then.

Mr. Kirkland, if you are reading this somewhere, I apologise sincerely.

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And so, I was freed of the worry of the attacks occurring inside school during the week. However, a far more terrifying prospect hit me as I arrived home, shaken and wondering about Mr. Jones's critical condition.

_That did not mean the teachers were not vulnerable in their own homes. _The attacks would continue, unabated and more out of my prevention than before. I couldn't live like this, worrying myself sick sitting at home and being unable to do anything but hope for the best.

Just as I was about to lie down on the sofa in my living-room in a vain attempt to relax, the phone rang.

Jolting, I grabbed it in my panicked state and pressed it to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Amber, it's me."

Mr. Kirkland's voice, strained with exhaustion.

"S-sir!" I gasped, completely taken aback. It was not every day you got a phone call from one of your own teachers personally. "What is it? Is Mr. Jones alright? Is he?"

A long, dreadful pause followed. Mr. Kirkland wanted to say 'yes' so badly it was killing him, I could imagine, if only to reassure himself. But he couldn't. He was already emotionally unstable as it was without lying to himself and making it all the worse.

"…I don't know," he admitted, finally. "I really don't know."

The last part was murmured as his emotions threatened to get the best of him again.

I heard the Englishman clear his throat as he collected himself.

"That aside...myself and the rest of the staff are all too aware that you must be worrying yourself sick at the moment, and that you are just as much part of this whole mess as we are. Thus, we think it would be best for you to come and meet us at a secret location tonight, and we will discuss matters there. Is that alright with you?"

I didn't even need to think it over.

"Hell yes it's alright with me!" I blurted. "Where do we meet?"

Clearly Mr. Kirkland hadn't expected such an enthusiastic response.

"U-um…alright then. The location is…"

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_Half an hour later…_

The Queen Vic pub. _That _was the location. Why was I not surprised? The Englishman had chosen one of the most popular locations in the area for their top-secret, Mum's-the-word location! Not to mention one of which Mr. Kirkland himself was a regular haunt. I voiced my concerns that this was probably the worst idea ever (next to the monumentally retarded idea that it would be good to pelt the Romanian gypsies down the road with tomatoes—ending in a colossal chase by angry Romanian men and women armed with wrenches, riding-whips and rolling pins), but was quickly persuaded otherwise when Mr. Kirkland responded cryptically:

"There is a location _within_ the location that is secret!"

Well that just made everything crystal clear, didn't it?

I took a bus to the town centre, gazing out the window at the passing streets and cars and the orange afternoon horizon merging with the soft blue that had graced the sky following the late afternoon showers that had occurred after I arrived back from Europa High. I took my cream jacket, just in case it started again.

I thought about everything that had happened over the past two weeks; all the people I'd met, all the people I'd got to know, and how everything had been so suddenly and catastrophically been thrown into jeopardy by an unknown figure clearly bent on wreaking havoc on my life.

Something had to be done. Now.

The bus stopped, and I got out at the designated stop outside the Queen Vic. It was a small, charming old establishment—built in the Victorian era, as its name suggested, it was fashioned out of criss-crossing wooden beams and dusty brown bricks, its windowsills decorated with hanging baskets abundant with flowers.

Placing a hand on the old black door-knocker, I pushed forwards.

To my surprise, it was locked. I looked at my wrist-watch. It was two hours from closing-time, why was the place shut? Mr. Kirkland had said that the secret meeting would take place somewhere within the pub, so how could I attend when there was no way to get inside?

I huffed irritably. I thought I could try the back entrance, but…

Suddenly a whistle piped through the air, and I jumped.

Turning right, I saw a hand jutting out from behind the side of the pub, beckoning me in a 'come here' gesture.

I hesitated.

"Tell me who you are first!" I insisted, keeping my voice down, just in case. I wasn't just going to blindly wander into the clutches of some stranger! Especially one that not-so-subtly hid behind a wall with only a hand left exposed.

The hand flopped, as if dejected. Then it perked up, as if in realisation, withdrew, and popped out again clutching a rose.

I frowned. This was getting nowhere.

"That still doesn't tell me anything!" I hissed. "You could be some crazy secret admirer, however small the likelihood!"

The hand drooped again, withdrew, and reappeared holding the _Sexy Frenchman Weeklymagazine._

Then it clicked, and I relaxed. There was only one man who publically read that magazine. But Jesus, that was retarded! What the hell kind of way to inconspicuously beckon someone when you don't want to be seen or heard doing so.

I walked towards the hand, turning left to see none other than Mr. Francis Bonnefoy himself, resident stalker and maker of many condoms, as well as the ex-Drama-teacher-turned-Sex-Ed-teacher, beaming warmly. He wore a loose white shirt with frilly cuffs and tight black hot-pants. That was it.

"_Félicitations, vous êtes ici! _[1]" he said, ruffling my hair, and taking me by the hand. "Come, to the back entrance—we're all waiting for you, _mon petit_ [2]!"

With that, the Frenchman led me around to the back entrance, approaching and knocking about twenty times in a dainty little ditty on its surface.

The door opened, and revealed Mr. Kirkland, looking very formal in an oak-brown suit, striped tie, and trousers, including gleaming brown shoes seemingly only just polished. A proper gentleman, by all appearances. The Englishman looked at me with grave green eyes, and then glanced sourly at the Frenchman beside me.

"Trust you to take five hundred years to turn up," he muttered. Then, turning and proceeding across the small bar area of stacked tables and chairs, he added: "Come on then, let's all get to the place before we all die of old age!"

I burst out giggling—I couldn't help myself—as we followed him. Mr. Bonnefoy was not so amused, but at the same time, strangely, did not say a word in response. I say that this was strange because the Frenchman simply loved to argue with his arch rival and would normally never hesitate to dish out further insults at the Brit's expense.

Walking past the stacked tables and chairs, the lights switched off, the pub took on a far darker and eerie form, completely at odds with its bright, lively daytime atmosphere. It almost looked sad, lonely.

Suddenly Mr. Kirkland stopped by the large but cheap crimson rug lying across the bare floorboards near the bar counter. He bent down, grabbed the edge of the rug and threw it to one side, revealing a trap door.

Of course! The cellar! The location within the location!

The Englishman opened the already unlocked entrance, lifting it up and raising it high enough for Mr. Bonnefoy and I to step under and descend down the steps into the darkness. Doing so, I automatically grabbed hold of the Frenchman's arm, fearing not the dark but the very steep drop and the possibility of tripping and falling to my untimely death.

Mr. Bonnefoy had a horribly wide grin the entire way down.

I couldn't see it, but I felt sure that Mr. Kirkland was glaring at him as he followed on behind after slamming the door shut.

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We turned right as we alighted on safe ground, and opened the door to the next dimly-lit room. It in were a whole host of staff from Europa High, even those whom I would not have considered under any threat from my mysterious attacker. Scanning the room, as gloomy and dank as upstairs, from left to right, I saw the following people sitting round in a wide circle in order from clockwise:

Non-smiling Mr. Carriedo, shifty Dr. Yao, Mr. Yong Soo, a worried Mr. Feli, a very annoyed Chef Romano, tearful Miss Iryna (Mr. Braginski's meek elder sister), Mr. Braginski himself, who was being shadowed by a demonic Miss Arlovskaya, a justifiably nervous Miss Vogel, Mr. Zwingli holding her hand, albino Mr. G, and in the centre of the circle, a stern-looking Mr. Beilschmidt, grim-faced Mr. Honda, agitated Ms. Héderváry, grave Mr. Edelstein for once at her side, solemn Mr. Feliks, and, finally, good old Irish caretaker and for once completely sober Mr. McCarthy.

Standing (due to lack of more seats and space) at the back of the room were the school's Dutch benefactor, Greek Mr. Karpusi, Grandpa Rome himself, and Deputy Head Mr. Sour Face. I was surprised to see Jason there too.

Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Bonnefoy joined them in the two empty seats next to the Irish caretaker. I was ushered to the one next to the Frenchman.

I was now acutely aware of the sheer diversity of nationalities among the school staff. It was like a world meeting, but with teachers instead of politicians. The atmosphere was very similar to what I believed would be at such a political meeting, though. Tense.

The last seat beside me, however, was deliberately left vacant; a stark reminder of the one person whom was both missing and missed. Mr. Jones's bright presence cast a darker, almost mournful shadow over the room, and I felt a lump lodge in my throat as I laid eyes on the empty seat. I looked at the floor, tears stinging.

Clearly in charge of the proceedings, Mr. Beilschmidt cleared his throat, speaking slowly and calmly.

"I shall first start by zhanking everyone for coming on such short notice, particularly Amber. Today ve vill discuss several issues-"

"I'm just here for the food, to be honest," Mr. Feliks confessed airily, inspecting his fingernails with the air of one who honestly couldn't give a flying fuck.

"ZHERE IS NO FOOD!" Mr. Beilschmidt barked.

The Pole gave the German man an indignantly confused look.

"Wha? But your brother said..."

"HE LIED! NOW SHUT UP AND LISTEN!"

Mr. Feliks crossed his arms and pouted. His posture, however, reminded me of one who was anxious but didn't want to express it-both legs and arms folded, very tense, and very twitchy. I saw the Pole was inwardly very distressed and trying to hide it with a veneer of collected indifference.

Mr. Beilschmidt sighed, and continued.

"Firstly: vhat measures to take in order to protect ourselves from the unknown enemy now zhat Europa High has been indefinitely closed, and ourselves made all zhe more vulnerable. Ve zhen must come up with a system zhat vill allow us to communicate at all times to effectively avoid injury and decide courses of action against said enemy. Zhen ve vill discuss exactly who zhis unknown aggressor might be, and vhat possible motives he/she/they have in order to interpret and possibly predict the next victim so he/she/they vill be caught and brought to justice as qvickly as possible. Now…any qvestions?"

Nobody raised their hand.

"Gut," the German said. "Now, vhat suggestions do any of us have as defensive measures?"

Swiss Mr. Zwingli raised a hand. Everyone saw this coming—the man was a vehement arms freak, and would dive for his weapons closet at the slightest hint of aggression, even if it was between students and even if it involved nothing more than a battle of who could stomach the most of Mr. Kirkland's latest culinary failures without vomiting and/or vomiting on others present.

"We should arm ourselves to the teeth—guns, bullet-proof vests, knives, grenades, anything (but especially guns)—so that if we are ambushed by the enemy we can fight back!"

There was a loud cheer and chorus of approval. Everyone wanted to have a chance to give this psycho what for personally, myself included. I grinned somewhat sadistically, fantasising the event that would take place in the scenario between the mysterious attacker and myself, armed with a chainsaw. Hell yes.

Mr. Beilschmidt raised a hand for silence, and silence there was. He considered the idea a moment. I honestly didn't think there was anything to consider. In hindsight, I suppose he was trying to decide how best to use this idea to its fullest and most effective potential without going crazy and botching the whole effort.

"…Alright zhen. Mr. Zwingli, you shall preside over the choice of weapons for everyone, and aftervards the ozhers and I vill discuss vhere to place them in our homes and about our persons… but do try not to go overboard. I zhink ve all remember the time vhen you arrived at school one morning driving a tank after the terrorist bombings that occurred in the highlands up north."

There were a few sniggers.

Mr. Edelstein raised a hand.

"I zhink ve should also place alarms around and inside our houses to detect the presence of an intruder."

Another cheer and chattering of approval. Mr. G flashed the Austrian a dramatic thumbs up. Mr. Edelstein's lips curled—clearly pleased despite his animosity towards the albino man. The Austrian's ex-wife squeezed his arm, beaming with happiness. A faint blush rose in the man's cheeks, and he fidgeted.

Mr. Beilschmidt nodded and bestowed upon Mr. Edelstein authority over placing the alarms in and outside the houses, including mine. When asked how exactly the German was going to pay for all this, Mr. Edelstein and Mr. Zwingli both insisted they would pay the expenses. It was a matter of life and death; money meant nothing now.

Mr. Feli raised a tentative hand.

"Um…maybe we should-a plan escape routes through our houses…and maybe only stay in one certain area for a while… just in case?"

There was an awkward silence.

"…Ja, zhat would be gut," Mr. Beilschmidt said, smiling a little at the small Italian. Everyone else nodded in agreement.

Mr. Feli beamed, while his crabby twin brother rolled his eyes in apparent distaste. It was no secret that Feliciano Vargas was a vehement pacifist as well as a general tendency to run for the hills at the slight threat of danger—which included the approach of the Irish the caretaker…and just about everything else barring food and sexy women.

Well, _I _thought it was a good idea to have escape plans. I mean, what if we underestimated the crazy bastard?

Mr. Yong-Soo eagerly announced his intention to provide walkie-talkies for everyone, and also place tracking devices on us so we knew everybody's location.

"Even when they're butt-nekkid in the bathroom!" he added, with a massively sneaky grin and glance in Dr. Yao's general direction. The Chinese man responded by exploding in righteous fury.

"WHAT IS _WRONG _WITH YOU?" he shrieked, gesturing wildly despite the face his hands were hidden in his overly-long sleeves.

"Many things, brother," the Korean murmured sagely, staring into the middle-distance like a nostalgic monk, pretending to hold a pipe to his lips. "Many things."

"GODDAMNIT, I KNEW AUNTIE SHOULD NEVER HAVE SMOKED POT WHILE SHE PREGNANT WITH YOU!" the Asian man hollered despairingly, and both instantly began squabbling.

For some reason or another, this seemed a cue for all other staff present to kick off as well, and soon the whole room was shaking with angry shouts, shoves and historical references.

I looked frantically over to the other side of the room where poor Jason was stuck in the centre of a raging argument between Grandpa Rome and his Germanic Deputy Head, the former apparently trying to defend himself with a half-eaten churro (courtesy of Mr. Carreido), the latter trying extremely hard to bash the Italian's head in with an empty chair, abandoned by another member of staff. I noticed Mr. Feli desperately attempting to hold Mr. G back from yanking Mr. Edelstein's mysterious stray curl of hair from the man's scalp.

Suddenly, the most almighty roar thundered across the room with such force and volume that the wine bottles stored in the corner of the room (for no apparent purpose) shattered simultaneously.

"**EVERYONE _SHUUUUUUUUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUUUUP!_" **Mr Beilschmidt bellowed, purple in the face and absolutely livid.

Everyone dived for their seats (with an indignant Mr. Edelstein snatching his back from the Deputy Head), and were silent. I had remained sitting, but had fallen off it when the unexpected roar from the German maths teacher shocked me out of my wits, and so clambered back on.

"RIGHT," he thundered. "ANYVONE WHO DARES DISRUPT ZHIS MEETING IN SUCH A DISGRACEFUL MANNER AGAIN VILL FORCE ME TO RELEASE ZHE ROTTWEILERS I HAVE STORED IN ZHE NEXT ROOM. DON'T ZHINK I VONT!"

Everyone nodded like dumb children.

Calming himself with a long, haggard sigh and pinching of the bridge of his nose, Mr. Beilschmidt called for order and we continued the meeting.

"Zo, does anyone have any idea vho this mysterious attacker might be, and vhat motives he/she/they might have?"

If thinking made a sound, the whole room would have been buzzing with it at that moment.

"Perhaps," the solemn Deputy Head suggested, "we should begin by asking Amber of anyone she has been on bad terms with recently, or even in the distant past, that might seek some kind of revenge."

Suddenly all eyes are on me, and the pressure was pretty intense, but not the 'I'm-in-big-trouble-they're-gonna-give-me-hell' kind of way.

"Uh…well…there was Clarisse and her posse."

The room erupted in mutters, whines and groans of contempt.

"Oh God, those troublemakers…"

"Always making trouble!"

"Such horrible girls…"

"I wouldn't put anything past them…"

"They probably did it."

"THEY FECKIN' DID IT!" the Irish caretaker hollered, throwing a pint of Guinness across the room for no particular reason, narrowly missing Mr. Beilschmidt's head and smashing against the wall.

"ENOUGH!" the German shouted. "We have no proof zhe girls, regardless of zheir reputation, did anyzhing. Despite zheir bad behaviour, I zhink ve'd all agree it is very unbelievable zhat zhey would do something so extreme as systematically assault with serious intent of grievous bodily harm, or even outright murder. Let us hear more of vhat Amber has to say."

"Well, uh…there was also Janice Blake…"

That name produced an opposite reaction if ever there was one. Everyone starting 'Aw'ing and saying how nice and quiet she was. A wolf-whistle came from a devious Mr. G, who was subsequently punched by an outraged Mr. Beilschmidt.

I continued: "She was pressured by Clarisse and the rest to reject my offer of friendship and so I went kinda crazy and have been ignoring her and being really stingy ever since."

I stopped. God, I sounded like an asshole. But still, that didn't give someone the right to attack people!

"But she's such a mild-mannered girl!" Dr. Yao piped up. "And besides, even if she did have a grudge to you, I see no reason why she would take it out on all of us teachers."

We all nodded, troubled and right back at the drawing board.

"Appearances can be deceiving, da?" Mr. Braginski put in, smiling a little wider than was considered likeable.

Everyone except myself and the Russian's younger, crazy sister, shifted uncomfortably while agreeing with his statement.

"But why _would _a student attack their own teachers?" A timid voice hovering at the back of the room murmured softly. I saw it to be Mr. Jones's twin brother Mr. Matthew Williams—the splitting image of his more rambunctious twin but with far softer features, with his slightly curled honey-brown locks nothing like Mr. Jones's wild mop. He wore glasses, like his twin, but more rounded and good-student-style (Ha, see what I did there?). His soft violet (?) eyes were anxious, his bottom lip trembling with worry for the whole situation and his twin brother, now in hospital.

Why Mr. Williams was here and not at the hospital with his brother was beyond me—I decided to ask him after the meeting session.

"None of us have done anything so extreme as to push one to plot murder, even the bad students," Mr. Bonnefoy added.

"So maybe it's not vengeance, but simply a maniac looking for easy targets?" Miss Vogel whispered, clutching a troubled Mr. Zwingli.

"Who knows if it was just one person? It could be a whole _group_ of maniacs!" Mr. Carriedo cried, gesticulating as the Spanish/Italian and Portuguese often did while speaking.

"And who is the real target? Amber? The teachers via Amber?" our Dutch benefactor (whose name escapes me) suggested, taking a few thoughtful puffs from his long pipe.

"Or perhaps both, thus killing two birds with one stone?" Mr. Kirkland pondered, tapping his chin and furrowing his eyebrows.

The whole room was buzzing with suggestion after suggestion.

"Everyone, everyone!" Mr. Beilschmidt said loudly, calling for order. "Zhis is clearly getting us novhere. Ve should vait a vhile, and in the meantime arm and defend ourselves appropriately until more clues come up. Mr. Edelstein and Mr. Zwingli, I leave the gadgets and weaponry to you—be qvick to distribute them per person. Vhen any of us find anyzhing, ve must report it to everyone, including Amber, und meet here no matter vhat zhe time. Are ve clear?"

We all nodded. Suddenly I felt drained. The stress and worry had finally caught up with me, and now all I wanted was to just go home and throw myself into bed.

Without warning, Mr. Yong Soo stood up dramatically; hands on hips, chest puffed out so far you'd think his nipples were attached to two hormonal rhinoceroses, and a massive broad smile stretched across his face so he looked like an Asian Ronald MacDonald.

"I HAVE DECIDED TO LIGHTEN THE MOOD BY SHOWING EVERYONE MY PENIS!" he announced, proceeding to whip his trousers down in full view of everyone.

Everyone recoiled in horror, gasping and covering their and each-other's eyes. Mr. Zwingli covered Miss Vogel's eyes with the words "Don't look at it Lilli! The world will never be the same again!" Ms. Héderváry slapped Mr. Edelstein's hand away and foamed at the mouth while the Austrian fell to his knees crying in anguish: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I WAS _TOO LATE!"_

Mr Kirkland, however, looked at the horrifying spectacle as a mother looks at her child's crappy drawing, with patronising and barely-concealed over-enthusiasm.

"_Oh! _Is that your_ _penis? __Would you look at that! It's like a _frightened little seahorse!_ And it's going away…"

Mr. Yong Soo zipped up his trousers quick-smart mid-way through the Brit's humiliation trip while everyone cracked up around him, and, as I've heard, has never done so again.

Well, he certainly lightened the mood for a bit.

As all the staff began to file out, I approached a timid Mr. Williams.

"Um, sir…" I spoke up, equally timid. "How…how's Mr. Jones?"

The fragile-looking Canadian citizen bit his lip, and his eyes watered.

"W-well, uh…" he whispered, whimpering slightly. "W-well, he's…he's in a coma…"

He burst out crying and ran from the room, closely followed by a paternal Mr. Bonnefoy and a live white bear cub that had appeared seemingly from out of nowhere.

I was stunned, and unable to move—Mr. Beilschmidt had to take me by the shoulders and guide me out of the cellar while Jason got me a drink of water, sat me down, patted me on the back and repeated over and over again that everything would be fine and he'd be up and about in no time.

"I live practically round the corner from your house," Mr. Kirkland said, "I can take you home."

I declined the offer, but he insisted.

"Hey, it's no place for a young girl your age to be walking around alone at this time of night! You are coming with me and that's that!" he said, holding me by the arm and leading me out of the back door of the pub, round the side and away to his very classy moss-green E-type Jaguar—a classic British car from the 1970s.

Thanking everyone for their support, I got in the back of the vehicle on impulse. Mr. Kirkland got in behind the wheel (duh) and drove out into the road, turning left, and back down the main high street towards my house.

I gazed hazily out the window, half-asleep. It was dark outside, and the street lights flashed and danced in the pitch blackness before my bleary vision. My driver was mostly silent, except for the occasional curse at a stupid driver.

Before I knew it, I was beside the empty front drive leading to my house. It was eerily quiet. Mr. Kirkland sat at the wheel, saying nothing.

Finally, he said, softly:

"I'm sorry I lied to you about Alfre-Mr. Jones's condition. He's going to be alright, you know. We just need to keep going."

The Brit then turned sideways to look at me, his face a picture of grim endurance despite the half-hearted smile.

"Keep calm and carry on, as I always say."

I smiled.

"Yessir."

Thanking him, I got out of his car, walked up the driveway and let myself in with the spare house-key I always carried with me in my inside jacket pocket.

I looked back to see Mr. Kirkland turn his car around and slowly drive away, giving me a quick wave as he accelerated off into the distance.

.

.

.

TO BE CONTINUED!

* * *

><p><span>TRANSLATIONS:<span>

'Félicitations', vous êtes ici!: Congratulations, you are here!

'Mon petit': Little one


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